The Last of the Menu Girls - WebCampus

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Table of Contents
Preface
Bohannan, Laura. 1966. “Shakespeare in the Bush.” Natural History
August / September 1966: 28-33.
Chávez, Denise. 1986. “The Last of the Menu Girls.” In The Last of the
Menu Girls, 11-38. Houston: Arte Publico Press.
Christie, Agatha. (1947) 1996. “The Stymphalian Birds.” In Best
Detective Stories of Agatha Christie, edited by Andy Hopkins
and Jocelyn Potter, 80-102. Harlow: Longman.
Dahl, Roald. 1986. Going Solo. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Gordimer, Nadine. 2003. “Karma.” In Loot and Other Stories, 151240. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Guo, Xiaolu. 2007. A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers.
London: Vintage Books.
Hinojosa, Rolando. 1983. “Sometimes It Just Happens That Way.” In
The Valley. A Novel, 55-70. Tempe, AZ: Bilingual Press /
Editorial Bilingüe.
James, Henry. 1879. “A Bundle of Letters.” Parisian 18 December
1879.
Lahiri, Jhumpa. 1999. “Interpreter of Maladies.” In Interpreter of
Maladies. Stories, 43-69. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Malamud, Bernard. (1963) 1984. “The Jewbird.” In The Stories of
Bernard Malamud, 144-154. New York: Plume Books.
Malouf, David. (1985) 1994. “The Only Speaker of his Tongue.” In The
Oxford Book of Australian Short Stories, edited by Michael
Wilding, 207-210. Oxford: Oxford University Press. See pp.
207-210.
McNickle, D’Arcy. (1930s) 2003. “Hard Riding.” In The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Shorter sixth edition, edited
by Nina Baym, 2250-2255. New York: Norton.
Porter, Katherine Anne. (1930) 2003. “Flowering Judas.” In The
Norton Anthology of American Literature. Shorter sixth
edition, edited by Nina Baym, 2088-2096. New York: Norton.
Wilson, Barbara (1998).“Mi Novelista.” The Death of a MuchTravelled Woman and Other Adventures with Cassandra
Reilly, 195-215. Chicago: Third Side Press.
Preface
The overall purpose of this course is to make you rethink the
connections between language, nation, culture and literature. You will
remember from previous courses that English literature – understood
in its broadest sense as literature written in English – is found in many
parts of the world. It has become a global literature, just as English has
become a world language. Not surprisingly, the English language exists
in a wide range of varieties, and this is reflected in the manifold literary
uses that are made of the language all over the globe.
But here we want to go one step further in questioning the
automatic relationships that we tend to take for granted between
‘language’ and ‘literature’. We need to address the fact that Englishlanguage writers live on in other languages too (e.g., through
translation Ernest Hemingway has also become a Spanish author), and
that English is not necessarily the only language that they use in their
original works (e.g., Hemingway has recourse to Spanish elements in
some of his novels).
The work done in this course should give us a better insight
into some of the complexities of translation as a fundamental cultural
principle enabling the circulation of texts between individuals and
communities representing different languages, periods and/or
cultures. Most of all, however, we shall look at how multilingualism
and (often) translation already take place within individual texts. The
course presents a set of terminological and conceptual tools designed
to help us get a grip on multilingualism in texts. But most of the time
we shall be reading and hopefully enjoying a very mixed bag of literary
texts in “English Plus” for the sake of illustration and critical discussion.
Dirk Delabastita
dirk.delabastita@unamur.be
Pluri-LL1 glossary of multilingualism and
heterolingualism
abbreviations
L1, L2, etc. = language one, language two, etc.
ST = source text, original
TT = target text, translation
SL = source language
TL = target language
notation conventions
basic formula
REPRESENTING LANGUAGE [=REPRESENTED LANGUAGE]
extended formula
REPRESENTING LANGUAGE (dialectal features of the
representing language) [=REPRESENTED LANGUAGE (dialectal
features of the represented language)]
examples
ENG [=FR]
ENG (Fr) [=FR]
ENG (Fr) [= ENG (Fr)]
ENG (broken) [= RUSS
(broken)]
1
in the text, film... English is spoken (representing
language, language of the text) but we may
assume that “in reality” French would have
been used (represented language, language
used in the fictional universe)
in the text, film... English is spoken with a
French accent in order to represent normal or
standard French
English is spoken with a French accent,
representing English spoken with a French
accent
bad or “broken” English is spoken to suggest
that in reality bad Russian is spoken
Pluri-LL = Groupe de Recherche sur le Plurilinguisme (UNamur).
bilingualism, multilingualism, plurilingualism
The ability to speak two (“bi-”) or even more (“multi-”, “pluri-”)
languages with native or near-native fluency. The term can refer to
individuals but also to entire communities (e.g. Quebec).
Many nations recognize only one “official” language but that
that does not alter the fact that most societies are multilingual to a
considerable and indeed growing extent. This fact is making it
increasingly necessary to reconsider the existing linguistic policies and
legislation. It also throws up difficult questions about nationhood and
citizenship in the modern world.
The case of perfect bilingualism is relatively rare. Usually
bilinguals have a better knowledge of one language than of the other,
or they will use them for specific knowledge domains or
communicative situations only.
A distinction is sometimes made between simultaneous and
sequential bilingualism. In the former case, two languages are
acquired at the same time (e.g. in a bilingual family); in the latter, the
second language has been learnt at a later stage (e.g. after moving into
a new country).
calque, loan translation
Synonymous terms which refer to the process in translation or foreignlanguage production whereby the components of a source-language
word or noun phrase are translated item by item (e.g. morpheme by
morpheme) to produce a target-language equivalent.
This strategy may be used for the sake of lexical innovation as
a way to create neologisms. For example, French “gratte-ciel”
originated as a calque based on English “skyscraper”.
But calques also occur in very literal translations, where they
will usually be disapproved of as errors* resulting from interference*.
For example, “to interest oneself to” (from French “s’intéresser à”) or
“to make a dream” (from French “faire un rêve”).
Calques are a form of literal translation but the meaning of
the latter term is more general. While calques operate at the lexical
level (composite words, expressions, idioms...), the notion of literal
translation extends into the field of syntax (a whole sentence is
translated on a word-for-word basis).
code-mixing
Term which is often used interchangeably with code-switching*.
However, some specialists restrict code-mixing to language
alternation below the sentence-level (intra-sentential shifts from L1 to
L2 within a single sentence, phrase or even word), whereas codeswitching involves alternations going beyond the borders of sentences
(shifts are supra-sentential: individual sentences are in the same
language).
code-switching
The alternating use of different languages in the same text or speech
event. When this happens within an individual sentence, the term
code-mixing* is often used instead. Code-switching can happen in a
conversation when one speaker speaks in L1 with the other speaker
answering in L2. It may also occur within the speech or writing of one
single person.
creole
See pidgin*.
diglossia
A special kind of bilingualism* in a society whereby the various
languages or language varieties fulfil different functions. Two main
functions are usually distinguished:
 one language or language variety will be “high” (standard,
formal, public): it is used in government, the media, education,
religious services, etc.,
 the other will be “low” (low-prestige, informal, private): it is
used with friends, in the family, during leisure activities, etc.
In conservative literary regimes, writers normally opt for the “high”
variety as their literary medium, as it carries the greatest prestige and
legitimacy. Having full or occasional recourse to the “low” variety in a
literary text can therefore be a critical, anti-authoritarian or dissident
gesture.
embedding
Most texts contain different “voices”, e.g. different narrators and/or
different characters whose spoken words or unspoken thoughts are
reported. These voices may or may not express themselves in the same
languages and language varieties. That is why we need a good sense
of how different voices can be “orchestrated” in a text, so that we can
interpret the heterolingual voices in their relationships with other
voices in the text.
The table below summarizes the six techniques that are
available to integrate someone else’s discourse (be it thought or
speech) into our own discourse. A possible way to understand the logic
underlying this range of six basic possibilities is to view the text
metaphorically as a “site” where some kind of a virtual power struggle
exists between quotees (e.g. characters) and quoters (e.g. the
narrator), who are all in a way “competing” for control over the
communicative situation. The central question then becomes: how
much autonomy and freedom of self-expression have the quotees
managed to secure for themselves in the face of the quoter’s potential
monopoly on speech? (It should be remembered that it is the quoter
who decides if anyone is going to be cited at all, and when, and how
extensively and by means of which technique!) When viewed from the
other end, the same question can be reformulated as follows: to what
extent does the narrator control and constrain the characters’ selfexpression by taking possession of their discourse and rephrasing it in
his/her own words, or even suppressing it?
The following list of standard techniques could accordingly be
seen as forming a continuum going from total quotee control (the
character takes the floor without waiting for the narrator’s ‘cue’ or
‘permission’ and proper introduction) to unbridled quoter control (the
character’s discourse is fully absorbed into and subjected to the
narrator’s). In other words, the continuum goes from less to more
‘appropriation’ and ‘editing’ of the supposed character discourse even
to the point of fully suppressing it:
The character’s discourse ‘interrupts’ that of the
narrator. This quotation technique dismisses all
narratorial mediation or interference (no reporting
verb, no quotation marks). It is the typical form of
first-person interior monologue.
DD
direct
discourse
The character’s discourse is quoted literally (in
principle) but not without explicit narratorial
mediation in the form of a reporting verb and
quotation marks.
FID
free
indirect
discourse
This technique blends the voices of character and
narrator: features of direct discourse (here/now
deictics, inversion in questions, tolerance for
expressive language, no syntactic subordination)
combine with features of indirect discourse thirdperson pronouns, back-shifting of tenses, no inverted
commas).
ID
indirect
discourse
The full grammatical integration of a character’s
utterance or thoughts into the narrator’s speech;
the narrator’s rendering of the supposed original
utterance is in principle expected to render its
content and style.
quoter control
NR
narrative
report
The narrator reports only the gist of the character’s
speech, summarizing it in his/her own words with
various possible degrees of precision and
completeness, but never even pretending to do
justice to the original formulation.
monopolistic
quoter control
overt
refusal to
report
The narrator mentions that the character produces
verbalized thought or an utterance, but makes it
clear that s/he refuses to quote, paraphrase or even
summarize the character’s discourse. The quotee is
thus publicly silenced.

quotee control
FDD
free direct
discourse
error
“Faulty”, “deviant” or “incorrect” use of a language; in other words, a
deviation from “normal” or “correct” use of the language, especially in
a foreign language.
The study of errors has been a popular field of investigation in
linguistics and applied linguistics from the 1960s onwards. It can teach
us a lot about how new languages are learnt and also, more generally,
about the cognitive dimension of language.
Some specialists make a distinction between two types of
faulty usage, namely “mistakes” and “errors”:
 mistakes are occasional (in Chomskyan terms, they occur at
the level of performance); they result from fatigue, lack of
attention, etc., and as such they will occasionally also be found
in the discourse of fluent users and native speakers of a
language;

errors are structural and systematic (in Chomskyan terms,
they find their origin in the user’s competence); they are
bound to recur inasmuch as they result from the language
user’s insufficient knowledge of the foreign language.
Errors may occur at various linguistic levels (pronunciation,
vocabulary, grammar, pragmatics...). In terms of the explanation of
errors, a rough classification of two types of cases has been proposed:
 interlingual errors result from interference*, which means
that elements, patterns, rules... from one’s source language
are wrongly transferred to the target language (e.g. false
friends*);
 intralingual errors cannot be traced back to another language
which is present in the speaker’s or writer’s mind and causing
interference; they constitute a large rest category, containing
all instances where an error simply results from the language
user’s incomplete or wrong knowledge of the target language.
Esperanto
The most famous example of an artificial or constructed language,
designed for universal use. Its inventor was L.L. Zamenhof (1859–
1917), a Polish oculist. He created it by combining elements and
structures taken from various Indo-European languages, mainly
Germanic and Romance ones.
In Esperanto, the word “Esperanto” means “one who hopes”,
reflecting Zamenhof’s intention to facilitate communication,
understanding and peace between the peoples of the world. Its
promoters argue that Esperanto is easy to learn and therefore more
efficient than existing natural languages; they also emphasize its
cultural and political neutrality (overlooking the fact, though, that the
language is strongly Eurocentric!).
false friend
A word which has the same or nearly the same form (signifier) in two
languages but with a different meaning (signified) in each. Secondlanguage learners and translators may be misled by the formal
similarity and use the word wrongly. Here are a few classic examples:
Fr. expérience / Eng. experiment (≠ experience); Fr. cave (Eng. cellar) /
Eng. cave (Fr. grotte). The term false cognate is often used as a
synonym for false friend.
w o r l d s
hermeneutic square
The following diagram offers a visual representation of the main
factors that play a part in the interpretation of narrative texts, whether
they are heterolingual or not.
the world of the text
characters
events
space
time
general world knowledge
facts
frames
scripts
t e x t
medium & language
time
characterization
focalization
narration
the text
“ w i t h i n ”
intertextuality:
individual texts
genres
discourses
other texts and discourses
“ b e y o n d ”
heterolingualism
Term coined to name the use of “another” (“hetero-”) language in a
text.
interference (linguistic – )
In the strict linguistic sense of the word, interference is the effect that
one language (typically, one’s mother tongue) has when we are
producing an utterance in another language (a foreign language). It is
a form of negative transfer between languages: features or structures
of L1 are transferred to L2, resulting in “unnatural”, “unidiomatic”,
“deviant” or “wrong” utterances.
Interference may be observed at various levels:
 writing (alphabet, typeface, punctuation, spelling): e.g. the
use of «French» quotation marks rather than “English” ones
in an English text;
 sound: e.g. pronunciation with a foreign accent;
 lexicon: e.g. loan words*, calques*, false friends*;
 grammar: e.g. literal translations resulting in ungrammatical
word order;

style: e.g. the over-use of long and grammatically complex
sentences in English by native speakers of German.
In normatively orientated subdisciplines such as language teaching or
translation criticism, interference is usually frowned upon. With
respect to the individual learner or translator, interference
phenomena are seen as highlighting his or her inadequate knowledge
of L2. At the wider level of society, interference supposedly shows how
the “purity” of the language is being corrupted or contaminated by the
scandalous intrusion of “foreign” elements.
A lot of post-colonial writers, however, will reject such puristic
and protectionist attitudes to language. They will deliberately blend
the language of the former colonizer with accents, words, idioms,
grammar, etc. taken from their own native language. The result is very
much a hybrid or mixed language. A classic example is the novel
Sozaboy (1985), which its author Ken Saro-Wiwa deliberately presents
as A Novel in Rotten English. The text is written in a form of English,
which enables the author to “write back” to the former empire in its
own language and also to break into global literary markets. At the
same time, the liberal inclusion of non-English, local elements
amounts to a polemical act of subversion towards English and a
positive strategy of self-affirmation. The text’s linguistic hybridity
reflects a unique dual cultural identity.
interpreting
The oral translation of a spoken text or message. In this sense, the term
is not to be confused with “interpretation” in the hermeneutic sense
of “understanding or explaining a text” even though both notions
show a certain degree of overlap.
Two basic modes of interpreting are distinguished:
 simultaneous translation: the translation takes place in real
time while the speaker is talking; the speaker does not pause
and the interpreter’s continuous rendering runs parallel with
it;
 consecutive translation: the speaker pauses after having
finished a segment, enabling the interpreter to render what
s/he has just said.
Different forms of interpreting may also be distinguished according to
the situational context or setting in which they happen. These are
some of the best-known types:
 conference interpreting;
 legal interpreting; court interpreting; police interpreting;
 medical interpreting;
 etc.
The term community interpreting refers to a wide range of oral
translation services whose aim is to provide access to a public service
for someone who does not speak the main languages of the
community where s/he lives (e.g. ethnic minorities, immigrants,
refugees...). As such, community interpreting will often involve legal
interpreting and medical interpreting, while also occurring in other
contexts such as administration, education, employment, housing,
social security, and so on.
language versus dialect
The distinction between language and dialect (or language variety*)
is difficult to make in absolute terms. Two dialects of the “same”
language can show major differences without being recognized as
autonomous languages; conversely, “different languages” can show so
many close similarities that one is tempted to categorize them as
dialects of the same language.
In the final analysis, the status of “language” or “dialect” is a
matter of institutionalisation and power relationships, rather than
depending on “objective” linguistic data. This idea is expressed in the
popular wisdom that “a language is a dialect with an army and navy”.
language variation
Languages, far from being monolithic or homogeneous structures,
should be seen as complex and socially diversified sets of sublanguages.
This issue of language variation is traditionally studied by
linguists (in fields such as stylistics, sociolinguistics and dialectology)
but it is of immediate interest to students of fiction as well. For
example, the use of language varieties in a narrative text can provide
important clues for an adequate interpretation of characterization and
focalization, which can in turn have moral, political or ideological
implications (think of the obvious example of the “bad guy” speaking
a substandard dialect of the language, so that the imperfections of his
idiom may be seen as symbolic of his feeble intellect, moral depravity,
inferior social class, and so on).
Language shows may different types of variation, as may be
illustrated by the following survey:
idiolect: the language special to an individual
the language special to a social group or social context
 regional dialect: e.g. the Yorkshire dialect
 social dialect: e.g. upper-class English
 occupational dialect: e.g. legal English
 generational dialect: e.g. kid talk, adolescent talk
the language special to a certain historical period

e.g. Middle English, archaic language, the trendy language of the day
the language special to a certain medium
 e.g. telegraphese, the language of text messaging,
oral/written
levels of formality
 e.g. formal/informal
conventional levels of correctness
 e.g. standard/substandard
 e.g. funny foreigner English
These sub-divisions of language are variously referred to as “dialects”,
“styles”, “registers”, “sub-languages”, “varieties” and so on. There is
no absolute terminological uniformity, but the term “variety” is usually
preferred as the most suitable catch-all term.
The variety of languages usually includes a standard dialect,
which serves as the embodiment of “neutral” and “correct” usage of
the language. This is the variant used and supported by important
institutions such as government, the courts, education, journalism,
publishing, religion, and so on. Its norms are described/prescribed in
dictionaries and grammars, and in some countries it is legitimized and
closely monitored by a language academy.
The importance of institutionalisation is also obvious in the
distinction between language* and dialect.
loan word
A word from taken from L1 to be used in L2. Loans may still be
recognizable as such or they may be fully integrated into the lexicon of
L2. Compare the following words, all of Arabic origin: candy, magazine,
sheikh, jihad.
macaronic
Name for writings (especially poetic ones) that mingle different
languages for humorous or satirical purposes. The term is not usually
used for “serious” forms of multilingualism within a text.
The genre emerged in the late Middle Ages, when Latin was
widely used in Europe as a “high” language (see diglossia*) side by side
with the more popular local vernaculars. It often took the form of “dog
Latin” presenting a comic mixture of Latin, pseudo-Latin and English
(or Italian, or French, etc., as the case may be).
media, medium
The physical medium and technology enabling a message or text to be
transmitted from one individual or social group to another. For verbal
messages, the following chronologically arranged classification is still
helpful:
 speech;
 writing;
 print;
 analog media (telephone, gramophone, film, radio,
television...);
 digital media (from personal computers to multimedia...).
The development of the analog mass media (often abbreviated as
“media”) in the twentieth century and the subsequent tsunami of
digital communication now washing over our contemporary society
have made us aware of their massive power:
 media can be used to network individuals in various
configurations and power relationships (compare the role of
state-controlled media and the possibly subversive use of the
Internet and “social media”);
 rather than simply being neutral channels for messages, the
medium used will to a very large extent shape and manipulate
messages and therefore our image of the world.
The media also play a very influential part in the sociolinguistic
development of societies, as well as in communication between
languages, cultures and societies. Let us quote just a few examples:
 the impact of the BBC World Service from the 1940s onwards;
 the recourse to television by minority language groups for the
sake of language revival;
 the use of satellite television by Polish immigrants in Belgium
and elsewhere;
 the availability of different language versions on DVD and Bluray disks...
metalingual information
Information provided about the language that is being used. There are
many forms of metalanguage that have nothing to do with
heterolingualism (e.g. in a sentence such as “the word onomatopoeia
is a difficult word to spell correctly”). But sometimes metalingual
comments play an important part in identifying a speech act as taking
place in another language. Compare the following examples. Let us
assume that the quotee’s language (represented language) is French
in each of the four examples:
heterolingualism
signalled
in
quoted
speech
in metalingual comment
(speech attribution)
yes
no
yes
She said in French:
“shut up”.
She said in French:
“tais-toi”.
no
She said: “shut up”.
She said: “tais-toi”.
More detailed metalingual glosses may also be provided. For
instances, heterolingual words or phrases may be translated or
explained when the author wants to make sure they are rightly
understood. This may happen in a number of ways, which can be
unobtrusive or quite explicit. Compare the following three examples,
which show different levels where the glossing may take place:
She said: “tais-toi, shut up”.
gloss provided by the character herself
“within” her own speech event
She said: “tais-toi”, which means
“shut up”.
gloss provided by the narrator
She said: “tais-toi*”.
gloss provided by the author or by the
text editor, not being offered as part of
the narrative fiction
footnote *: (French) “shut up”.
All kinds of variations on these basic possibilities are possible. Thus,
the first example may in principle also be interpreted differently,
namely as an explanation by the narrator which has “silently” been
incorporated into the quotation: the gloss is really provided by the
narrator for the sake of the reader and not by the speaker for her
interlocutor.
mimesis
This term refers to the textual representation or reproduction of
“reality” in a way which is conventionally believed to be faithful and
accurate. This includes the linguistic reality that is supposed to be
conveyed by a text.
The scheme that follows has been freely adapted from Meir
Sternberg’s article on “Polylingualism as reality and translation as
mimesis” (Poetics Today 1981, 2:4, pp. 221-239). It maps the main
possibilities that seem to exist with respect to issues of
monolingualism and multilingualism in texts and in the realities that
they are believed to represent.
Let us first introduce Sternberg’s terminology:





referential restriction: the text is monolingual simply
because the social milieu of its fictional world is monolingual;
homogenizing convention: a monolingual text describes
(what we know or believe to be) a multilingual reality;
discursive interference: in a subtle (close to homogenizing
convention: there is just a touch of exoticism) or a more
obvious and systematic manner (close to vehicular matching:
long stretches of foreign-language material are included), the
text selectively reproduces heterolingual material, presents
instances of linguistic interference* or introduces conceptual
irregularities in such a way as to represent at least part of the
linguistic strangeness of the represented discourse;
vehicular matching: different languages are allotted to
speakers in accordance with what we know about the
linguistic reality which is represented;
vehicular promiscuity: multilingual textual means are used to
express what we may believe to be monolingual realities.
relationship between representing language and
represented language
same
different
different
same
different
monolingual
text
monolingu multilingual
al reality
reality
multilingua
l reality
multilingu
al reality
monolingu
al reality
homogenizi
ng
convention
discursive
interferenc
e
vehicular
matching
vehicular
promiscuit
y
referential
restriction
m u l t i l i n g u a l
t e x t

insertion of heterolingual material
 interjections and tags, words, phrases, sentences, long stretches

 isolated or systematic 
interference-based irregularities
orthographic and typographic (writing system, alphabet, typeface)
phonetic (oralaccent; writtenspelling)
lexical (words, idiom)
grammatical (morphology, syntax)
stylistic, discursive
conceptual irregularities
knowledge and understanding of the world
norms and values
monolingualism, unilingualism
The knowledge and use of a single language only; this can apply to
individual users but also to communities. Monolingualism is thus
opposed to bilingualism* and multilingualism.
Despite the rapid spread of globalisation, many societies still
consider monolingualism to be the norm. This is due to the lasting
strength of nationalistic ideologies, which reached their zenith in the
nineteenth century, and their romantic belief in the model of one
nation, one territory, one language, one literature. Universities, the
education system, the national media and other institutions have
consistently been mobilized to strengthen the sense of a single and
stable national identity through the use of a single national language.
This has been at the cost of suppressing and making invisible the real,
complex and very changeable plurality of languages in society.
multilingualism, plurilingualism
See bilingualism*.
multilingualism and translation
It seems to be common sense to assume that multilingualism and
translation form a perfect and natural match. After all, multilingualism
creates the need for translation; translation appears to be the most
“logical” solution when a multilingual situation creates a
communicative obstacle.
However, translation is certainly not the only way to deal with
the plurality of languages. Consider the following list of alternative
solutions:
1. group A and group B simply avoid contact and
communication altogether;
2. A suppresses the use of other languages than its own, e.g. by
banning it, or even by eliminating its users;
3. A becomes proficient in the language of B;
4. A and B learn to use each other’s language actively;
5. A and B acquire a passive knowledge of each other’s
language;
6. A and B use a “neutral” third language C (e.g. an international
language such as English);
7. A and B develop an interlanguage A/B (e.g. pidgin*);
8. A and B use an artificial language (e.g. Esperanto*).
In a paradoxical manner we can say that translation and
multilingualism pull in opposite directions. In a society where
individual L1/L2 bilingualism is widespread, the need for systematic
translation will hardly arise. Conversely, when texts are translated in
great numbers between L1 and L2, monolingual speakers of either
language will not be encouraged to leave their monolingual cocoon to
learn the other language and become bilingual.
pidgin
A pidgin is a hybrid “contact language” or “interlanguage” which
emerges in the interaction between members of two speech
communities that cannot understand each other.
Such languages have a limited function (e.g. trade) and
simplified structures. However, pidgins may develop into so-called
creoles when they become the native language of speakers in a
community. In this process of “creolization”, the pidgin widens its
range of functions and it correspondingly becomes more complex
structurally and stylistically.
pseudotranslation
A text that misleadingly presents itself, and/or is perceived, as a
translation while in reality being an original composition.
An example is the Book of Mormon, which Joseph Smith
(1805–1844) allegedly translated with divine help from
incomprehensible signs in “reformed Egyptian” into English. The
originals were inscribed on golden plates, which were then
conveniently retrieved by an angel after the “translation” was
completed. None other than the voice of God declared this English
translation to be equivalent, so that it could replace the original!
Famous literary examples in English include the poems
supposedly composed by the old Scots Gaelic poet Ossian and
“faithfully translated” by James McPherson in the 1760s.
translation
The rendering of a text from a source language into a target language
in such a way that some form of equivalence exists – or, more
correctly, is assumed to exist – between the source text and the target
text. This can be equivalence of intention, equivalence of effect,
referential equivalence, semantic equivalence...
The term translation usually designates written forms of
translation as opposed to interpreting*. Sometimes, however, it is a
generic term covering any kind of interlingual rendering regardless of
mode or medium.
Not every text that calls itself a translation or that is regarded
as such is a translation “in reality” (see pseudotranslation*).
Conversely, “translation” very often operates in a hidden manner. For
these reasons we need to make an analytical distinction between
three separate dimensions:
 status: what a text or a discourse is claimed, believed,
attested... to be (a “translation”, an “original”, an
“adaptation”, a case of “plagiarism”, a “version”, or something
else);
 origin: the real and often complex genealogy of the text in
question;
 features: the text’s discursive characteristics, as revealed by
any type of analysis (be it comparative or not, corpus-based or
not, etc.) which the researcher believes to be relevant to the
case.
translation studies
The name for the academic discipline that started to develop after
WW2 and which became successful from the 1980s onwards. Initially
the discipline had a strong practical or applied orientation (teaching
translation, the Holy Grail of computer translation). More recently, the
discipline developed into a more descriptive and empirically based
field of research, focussing on historical and cultural realities of
translation.
willing suspension of disbelief
A famous critical phrase coined by the romantic poet S.T. Coleridge to
refer to the reader’s (spectator’s...) willingness to temporarily make
abstraction of questions about the truth or reality of a fictional work.
This makes it possible for the reader to enter the imaginative world of
the fiction on its own terms.
The term names a general aesthetic convention but, needless
to say, it plays a big part in matters of language representation. Think
of the following cases:
 Tintin getting along in his native French (or Dutch, German,
Finnish...) wherever he goes;
 the actors speaking English in the historical BBC drama series
Rome;
 characters in the story-world using a non-existent, invented
language, or a language whose existence is impossible to
observe empirically, e.g. animals in animated cartoons, aliens
in science-fiction, Gods in sacred or mythological tales...
Few of us believe that Romans, rabbits, Martians or Gods really speak
English the way we do, but the conventions of fiction are so strong that
storytellers usually get away with such strange phenomena! The
examples also illustrate the fact, though, that the choice of languages
in fiction is never natural or self-evident!
world literature
Term invented in 1827 by Goethe (“Weltliteratur”) to demonstrate
that literature can and should be a common good for all humanity
rather than being confined to narrow-minded national traditions; but
his view of world literature as a harmonious space to be shared by all
people soon turned out to be a rather naive myth. Nowadays, world
literature is more often seen as an area of conflict where writers in
different languages – and thus, in a way, the languages themselves –
are competing for power and prestige and where power relationships
are very imbalanced.
Contextualising literary heterolingualism: a checklist
C O N T E X T S
author
 biographical background, linguistic biography
 linguistic skills
 cultural agenda, political programme, ethical commitment
reader
 intended readership(s): linguistic options as a way to select
your readers
 linguistic skills demanded of the implied reader
 possibly different readings or levels of understanding
reality: the mimetic dimension
 documentary – fictional – fantasy
 cultural and sociolinguistic realities behind the story
 their relevance to the story content
initial distribution of the text and its position within the literary
field
 publisher, imprint, series
 genre, subgenre
 low-brow – mainstream – the high end of the literary market
reception
 reviews, awards
 presence on Wikipedia
 widening circles of receivers: translations, adaptations, film
versions
T H E
paratextual elements
 preface, blurb
 cover, illustrations
 website
story-content
 characters
 events
 setting in place and time
T E X T
prima facie causes of heterolingualism: (a) movement in space
 exile, self-exile
 diaspora
 nomadism
 emigration, immigration
 adoption
 tourism, travel
 international crime, terrorism, intelligence gathering
 war, invasion, occupation
prima facie causes of heterolingualism: (b) within the same space
 regional minorities
 border regions
 cosmopolitan cities
 transnational institutions
prima facie causes of heterolingualism: (c) beyond space
 interlingual contact established through writing or in the
virtual world of the modern media
overall focus
 psychological: individual identities
 cultural or political: group identities (gender, ethnic minority)
 philosophical: ethical and existential questions
(identity/difference)
functions of heterolingualism
 text-internal structuring (the different voices, their
distribution and interactions, written modes vs. orality)
 aesthetic effects: realistic illusion (authenticity, local colour)
 aesthetic effects: characterization (including dynamics
between characters) (linguistic and cultural stereotyping,
stage dialects) (inferiority/superiority and insider/outsider
effects)
 aesthetic effects: plot and suspense management
 aesthetic effects: mise-en-abyme, metafictional selfreference
 humorous effects (stereotypes, ambiguity and bilingual
wordplay)
 political/ideological effects (colonial vs. postcolonial
sensibilities) (development and validation of new language
varieties) (critique of institutional language policies)
Bibliography
(a) Key references in Translation Studies
Baker, Mona and Gabriela Saldanha (eds) (2009). Routledge
encyclopedia of translation studies. London/New York:
Routledge.
Classe, Olive (ed.) (2000). Encyclopedia of literary translation into
English. 2 vols. London/Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn.
France, Peter (ed.) (2000). The Oxford guide to literature in English
translation. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press.
France, Peter and Stuart Gillespie (eds) (2005-). The Oxford history of
literary translation in English. Five volumes (in progress).
Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press.
Gambier, Yves and Luc van Doorslaer (eds) (2010-2011). Handbook of
translation studies. 2 vols. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John
Benjamins. Online at
http://www.benjamins.com/online/hts/.
Guidère, Mathieu (2010). Introduction à la traductologie. Penser la
traduction: hier, aujourd’hui, demain. 2e édition. Bruxelles:
De Bouck.
Hermans, Theo (1999). Translation in systems. Descriptive and
system-oriented approaches explained. Manchester: St
Jerome.
Munday, Jeremy (2008). Introducing translation studies. Theories and
applications. Second edition. London/New York: Routledge.
Pym, Anthony (2010). Exploring translation theories. London/New
York: Routledge.
Toury, Gideon (1995). Descriptive translation studies and beyond.
Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.
Venuti, Lawrence (ed.) (2004). The translation studies reader. Second
edition. London/New York: Routledge.
Leading journals in the field
Meta : journal des traducteurs / Meta: translators’ journal (Presses
de l’Université de Montréal)
Target (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins)
The translator (Manchester: St Jerome)
Translation and literature (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press)
Bibliographical resources
Translation studies abstracts (Manchester: St Jerome)
Translation studies bibliography (Amsterdam: John Benjamins)
(b) Language representation, heterolingualism and translation in
fiction
Armstrong, Nigel M. and Federico M. Federici (eds) (2006).
Translating voices, translating regions. Roma: Aracne.
Blank, Paula (1996). Broken English. Dialectics and the politics of
language in Renaissance writings. London/New York:
Routledge.
Bleichenbacher, Lukas (2008). Multilingualism in the movies.
Hollywood characters and their language choices. Tübingen:
Francke.
Carlson, Marvin (2006). Speaking in tongues. Languages at play in the
theatre. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press.
Conley, Tim and Stephen Cain (2006). Encyclopedia of fictional and
fantastic languages. Westport: Greenwood Press.
Cronin, Michael (2009). Translation goes to the movies. London/New
York: Routledge.
Delabastita, Dirk (2002). “A great feast of languages. Shakespeare’s
multilingual comedy in King Henry V and the translator”. The
translator 8:2, 303-340.
Delabastita, Dirk and Rainier Grutman (eds) (2005). Fictionalising
translation and multilingualism (special issue of Linguistica
Antverpiensia New Series 4). Antwerpen: Hogeschool
Antwerpen, HIVT.
Delabastita, Dirk (2010). “Language, comedy and translation in the
BBC sitcom ‘Allo ‘Allo”. In Delia Chiaro (ed.), Translation,
humour and the media. London: Continuum, 193-221.
Gentzler, Edwin (2008). Translation and identity in the Americas. New
directions in translation theory. London/New York:
Routledge.
Grutman, Rainier (1997). Des langues qui résonnent.
L’hétérolinguisme au XIXe siècle québécois. Montréal: Fides.
Hoenselaars, Ton and Marius Buning (eds) (1999). English literature
and the other languages. Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi.
Meylaerts, Reine (2006). Heterolingualism in/and translation (special
issue of Target 18:1). Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John
Benjamins.
Moreno, Carolina P. Amador and Ana Nunez (eds) (2009). The
representation of the spoken mode in fiction. How authors
write how people talk. Lewiston/ Queenston/Lampeter: the
Edwin Mellen Press.
Sternberg, Meir (1981). “Polylingualism as reality and translation as
mimesis”. Poetics today 2 (4): 221-239.
Talib, Ismail S. (2002). The language of postcolonial literatures.
London: Routledge.
Bohannan, Laura “Shakespeare in the Bush” (1966)
Just before I left Oxford for the Tiv1 in West Africa, conversation turned
to the season at Stratford2. “You Americans,” said a friend, “often have
difficulty with Shakespeare. He was, after all, a very English poet, and
one can easily misinterpret the universal by misunderstanding the
particular.”
I protested that human nature is pretty much the same the
whole world over; at least the general plot and motivation of the
greater tragedies would always be clear – everywhere – although
some details of custom might have to be explained and difficulties of
translation might produce other slight changes. To end an argument
we could not conclude, my friend gave me a copy of Hamlet to study
in the African bush: it would, he hoped, lift my mind above its primitive
surroundings, and possibly I might, by prolonged meditation, achieve
the grace of correct interpretation.
It was my second field trip to that African tribe, and I thought
myself ready to live in one of its remote sections – an area difficult to
cross even on foot. I eventually settled on the hillock3 of a very knowledgeable old man, the head of a homestead4 of some hundred and
forty people, all of whom were either his close relatives or their wives
and children. Like the other elders of the vicinity, the old man spent
most of his time performing ceremonies seldom seen these days in the
more accessible parts of the tribe. I was delighted. Soon there would
be three months of enforced isolation and leisure, between the
harvest that takes place just before the rising of the swamps5 and the
clearing of new farms when the water goes down. Then, I thought,
they would have even more time to perform ceremonies and explain
them to me.
I was quite mistaken. Most of the ceremonies demanded the
presence of elders from several homesteads. As the swamps rose, the
old men found it too difficult to walk from one homestead to the next,
and the ceremonies gradually ceased. As the swamps rose even higher,
all activities but one came to an end. The women brewed beer from
maize and millet. Men, women, and children sat on their hillocks and
drank it.
People began to drink at dawn. By midmorning the whole
homestead was singing, dancing, and drumming. When it rained,
Text based on:
http://law.ubalt.edu/downloads/law_downloads/IRC_Shakespeare_in_the_Bush.pdf
1
Tiv an ethno-linguistic group in Nigeria and Cameroon
season at Stratford the theatre programmes for the current year in Stratford-uponAvon
3 hillock a small hill
4 homestead a settlement, a group of huts occupied by a single extended family
5 swamp an area of very wet land, covered by standing water of little depth
2
Bohannan “Shakespeare in the Bush” (2)
people had to sit inside their huts: there they drank and sang or they
drank and told stories. In any case, by noon or before, I either had to
join the party or retire to my own hut and my books. “One does not
discuss serious matters when there is beer. Come, drink with us.” Since
I lacked their capacity for the thick native beer, I spent more and more
time with Hamlet. Before the end of the second month, grace
descended on me. I was quite sure that Hamlet had only one possible
interpretation, and that one universally obvious.
Early every morning, in the hope of having some serious talk
before the beer party, I used to call on the old man at his reception hut
– a circle of posts supporting a thatched roof above a low mud wall to
keep out wind and rain. One day I crawled through the low doorway
and found most of the men of the homestead sitting huddled in their
ragged cloths on stools, low plank beds, and reclining chairs, warming
themselves against the chill of the rain around a smoky fire. In the
center were three pots of beer. The party had started.
The old man greeted me cordially. “Sit down and drink.” I
accepted a large calabash1 full of beer, poured some into a small
drinking gourd2, and tossed it down. Then I poured some more into the
same gourd for the man second in seniority to my host before I handed
my calabash over to a young man for further distribution. Important
people shouldn’t ladle3 beer themselves.
“It is better like this,” the old man said, looking at me approvingly and plucking at the thatch4 that had caught in my hair. “You
should sit and drink with us more often. Your servants tell me that
when you are not with us, you sit inside your hut looking at a paper.”
The old man was acquainted with four kinds of “papers”: tax
receipts, bride price receipts, court fee receipts, and letters. The
messenger who brought him letters from the chief used them mainly
as a badge of office5, for he always knew what was in them and told
the old man. Personal letters for the few who had relatives in the
government or mission stations were kept until someone went to a
large market where there was a letter writer and reader. Since my
arrival, letters were brought to me to be read. A few men also brought
me bride price receipts, privately, with requests to change the figures
to a higher sum. I found moral arguments were of no avail, since inlaws are fair game6, and the technical hazards of forgery difficult to
explain to an illiterate people. I did not wish them to think me silly
enough to look at any such papers for days on end, and I hastily
explained that my “paper” was one of the “things of long ago” of my
country.
1
calabash the hollowed-out dried shell of a calabash (tropical fruit), used as a
container
2 gourd a hard-skinned fleshy tropical fruit, hollowed out and used as a cup
3 ladle to distribute with a ladle (= a large spoon with a long handle)
4 thatch straw or similar material used in making a roof for a hut
5 badge of office an official sign of your rank or function
6 fair game a person whom you think it is legitimate or acceptable to criticize,
ridicule or attack
“Ah,” said the old man. “Tell us.”
I protested that I was not a storyteller. Storytelling is a skilled
art among them; their standards are high, and the audiences critical –
and vocal in their criticism. I protested in vain. This morning they
wanted to hear a story while they drank. They threatened to tell me
no more stories until I told them one of mine. Finally, the old man
promised that no one would criticize my style, “for we know you are
struggling with our language.” “But,” put in one of the elders, “you
must explain what we do not understand, as we do when we tell you
our stories.” Realizing that here was my chance to prove Hamlet universally intelligible, I agreed.
The old man handed me some more beer to help me on with
my storytelling. Men filled their long wooden pipes and knocked coals
from the fire to place in the pipe bowls; then, puffing contentedly, they
sat back to listen. I began in the proper style, “Not yesterday, not
yesterday, but long ago, a thing occurred. One night three men were
keeping watch outside the homestead of the great chief, when
suddenly they saw the former chief approach them.”
“Why was he no longer their chief?”
“He was dead,” I explained. “That is why they were troubled
and afraid when they saw him.”
“Impossible,” began one of the elders, handing his pipe on to
his neighbor, who interrupted, “Of course it wasn’t the dead chief. It
was an omen sent by a witch. Go on.”
Slightly shaken, I continued. “One of these three was a man
who knew things” – the closest translation for scholar, but unfortunately it also meant witch. The second elder looked triumphantly at
the first. “So he spoke to the dead chief saying, ‘Tell us what we must
do so you may rest in your grave,’ but the dead chief did not answer.
He vanished, and they could see him no more. Then the man who knew
things – his name was Horatio – said this event was the affair of the
dead chief’s son, Hamlet.”
There was a general shaking of heads round the circle. “Had
the dead chief no living brothers? Or was this son the chief?”
“No,” I replied. “That is, he had one living brother who became
the chief when the elder brother died.”
The old men muttered: such omens were matters for chiefs
and elders, not for youngsters; no good could come of going behind a
chief’s back; clearly Horatio was not a man who knew things.
“Yes, he was,” I insisted, shooing1 a chicken away from my
beer. “In our country the son is next to the father. The dead chief’s
younger brother had become the great chief. He had also married his
elder brother’s widow only about a month after the funeral.”
“He did well,” the old man beamed and announced to the
others, “I told you that if we knew more about Europeans, we would
find they really were very like us. In our country also,” he added to me,
1
shoo to cause sby or sth to go away by scaring them
“the younger brother marries the elder brother’s widow and becomes
the father of his children. Now, if your uncle, who married your
widowed mother, is your father’s full brother, then he will be a real
father to you. Did Hamlet’s father and uncle have one mother?”
His question barely penetrated my mind; I was too upset and
thrown too far off-balance by having one of the most important elements of Hamlet knocked straight out of the picture. Rather uncertainly I said that I thought they had the same mother, but I wasn’t sure
– the story didn’t say. The old man told me severely that these genealogical details made all the difference and that when I got home I must
ask the elders about it. He shouted out the door to one of his younger
wives to bring his goatskin bag.
Determined to save what I could of the mother motif, I took a
deep breath and began again. “The son Hamlet was very sad because
his mother had married again so quickly. There was no need for her to
do so, and it is our custom for a widow not to go to her next husband
until she has mourned for two years.”
“Two years is too long,” objected the wife, who had appeared
with the old man’s battered goatskin bag. “Who will hoe1 your farms
for you while you have no husband?”
“Hamlet,” I retorted, without thinking, “was old enough to hoe
his mother’s farms himself. There was no need for her to remarry.” No
one looked convinced. I gave up. “His mother and the great chief told
Hamlet not to be sad, for the great chief himself would be a father to
Hamlet. Furthermore, Hamlet would be the next chief: therefore he
must stay to learn the things of a chief. Hamlet agreed to remain, and
all the rest went off to drink beer.”
While I paused, perplexed at how to render Hamlet’s disgusted
soliloquy to an audience convinced that Claudius and Gertrude had
behaved in the best possible manner, one of the younger men asked
me who had married the other wives of the dead chief.
“He had no other wives,” I told him.
“But a chief must have many wives! How else can he brew beer
and prepare food for all his guests?”
I said firmly that in our country even chiefs had only one wife,
that they had servants to do their work, and that they paid them from
tax money.
It was better, they returned, for a chief to have many wives
and sons who would help him hoe his farms and feed his people; then
everyone loved the chief who gave much and took nothing – taxes
were a bad thing.
I agreed with the last comment, but for the rest fell back on
their favorite way of fobbing off2 my questions: “That is the way it is
done, so that is how we do it.”
1
hoe to cultivate or prepare the soil (breaking up clods of earth, removing weeds,
etc.)
2 fob off to get rid of by deceitful or evasive means
I decided to skip the soliloquy. Even if Claudius was here
thought quite right to marry his brother’s widow, there remained the
poison motif, and I knew they would disapprove of fratricide. More
hopefully I resumed, “That night Hamlet kept watch with the three
who had seen his dead father. The dead chief again appeared, and
although the others were afraid, Hamlet followed his dead father off
to one side. When they were alone, Hamlet’s dead father spoke.”
“Omens can’t talk!” The old man was emphatic.
“Hamlet’s dead father wasn’t an omen. Seeing him might have
been an omen, but he was not.” My audience looked as confused as I
sounded. “It was Hamlet’s dead father. It was a thing we call a ‘ghost.’”
I had to use the English word, for unlike many of the neighboring
tribes, these people didn’t believe in the survival after death of any
individuating part of the personality.
“What is a ‘ghost?’ An omen?”
“No, a ‘ghost’ is someone who is dead but who walks around
and can talk, and people can hear him and see him but not touch him.”
They objected. “One can touch zombis.”
“No, no! It was not a dead body the witches had animated to
sacrifice and eat. No one else made Hamlet’s dead father walk. He did
it himself.”
“Dead men can’t walk,” protested my audience as one man.
I was quite willing to compromise: “A ‘ghost’ is the dead man’s
shadow.”
But again they objected. “Dead men cast no shadows.”
“They do in my country,” I snapped.
The old man quelled the babble of disbelief that arose immediately and told me with that insincere, but courteous, agreement one
extends to the fancies1 of the young, ignorant, and superstitious, “No
doubt in your country the dead can also walk without being zombis.”
From the depths of his bag he produced a withered fragment of kola
nut, bit off one end to show it wasn’t poisoned, and handed me the
rest as a peace offering.
“Anyhow,” I resumed, “Hamlet’s dead father said that his own
brother, the one who became chief, had poisoned him. He wanted
Hamlet to avenge him. Hamlet believed this in his heart, for he did not
like his father’s brother.” I took another swallow of beer. “In the
country of the great chief, living in the same homestead, for it was a
very large one, was an important elder who was often with the chief
to advise and help him. His name was Polonius. Hamlet was courting
his daughter, but her father and her brother … [I cast hastily about for
some tribal analogy] warned her not to let Hamlet visit her when she
was alone on her farm, for he would be a great chief and so could not
marry her.”
1
fancies silly things which are imagined
“Why not?” asked the wife, who had settled down on the edge
of the old man’s chair. He frowned at her for asking stupid questions
and growled, “They lived in the same homestead.”
“That was not the reason,” I informed them. “Polonius was a
stranger who lived in the homestead because he helped the chief, not
because he was a relative.”
“Then why couldn’t Hamlet marry her?”
“He could have,” I explained, “but Polonius didn’t think he
would. After all, Hamlet was a man of great importance who ought to
marry a chief’s daughter, for in his country a man could have only one
wife. Polonius was afraid that if Hamlet made love to his daughter,
then no one else would give a high price for her.”
“That might be true,” remarked one of the shrewder elders,
“but a chief’s son would give his mistress’s father enough presents and
patronage to more than make up the difference. Polonius sounds like
a fool to me.”
“Many people think he was,” I agreed. “Meanwhile Polonius
sent his son Laertes off to Paris to learn the things of that country, for
it was the homestead of a very great chief indeed. Because he was
afraid that Laertes might waste a lot of money on beer and women
and gambling, or get into trouble by fighting, he sent one of his
servants to Paris secretly, to spy out what Laertes was doing. One day
Hamlet came upon Polonius’s daughter Ophelia. He behaved so oddly
he frightened her. Indeed” – I was fumbling for words to express the
dubious quality of Hamlet’s madness – “the chief and many others had
also noticed that when Hamlet talked one could understand the words
but not what they meant. Many people thought that he had become
mad.” My audience suddenly became much more attentive. “The great
chief wanted to know what was wrong with Hamlet, so he sent for two
of Hamlet’s age mates [school friends would have taken a long
explanation] to talk to Hamlet and find out what troubled his heart.
Hamlet, seeing that they had been bribed by the chief to betray him,
told them nothing. Polonius, however, insisted that Hamlet was mad
because he had been forbidden to see Ophelia, whom he loved.”
“Why,” inquired a bewildered voice, “should anyone bewitch
Hamlet on that account?”
“Bewitch him?”
“Yes, only witchcraft can make anyone mad, unless, of course,
one sees the beings that lurk1 in the forest.”
I stopped being a storyteller and took out my notebook and
demanded to be told more about these two causes of madness. Even
while they spoke and I jotted notes, I tried to calculate the effect of
this new factor on the plot. Hamlet had not been exposed to the beings
that lurk in the forests. Only his relatives in the male line could bewitch
1
lurk to lie hidden or move about waiting to attack
him. Barring1 relatives not mentioned by Shakespeare, it had to be
Claudius who was attempting to harm him. And, of course, it was.
For the moment I staved off2 questions by saying that the great
chief also refused to believe that Hamlet was mad for the love of
Ophelia and nothing else. “He was sure that something much more
important was troubling Hamlet’s heart.”
“Now Hamlet’s age mates,” I continued, “had brought with
them a famous storyteller. Hamlet decided to have this man tell the
chief and all his homestead a story about a man who had poisoned his
brother because he desired his brother’s wife and wished to be chief
himself. Hamlet was sure the great chief could not hear the story
without making a sign if he was indeed guilty, and then he would
discover whether his dead father had told him the truth.”
The old man interrupted, with deep cunning, “Why should a
father lie to his son?” he asked.
I hedged: “Hamlet wasn’t sure that it really was his dead
father.” It was impossible to say anything, in that language, about
devil-inspired visions.
“You mean,” he said, “it actually was an omen, and he knew
witches sometimes send false ones. Hamlet was a fool not to go to one
skilled in reading omens and divining the truth in the first place. A manwho-sees-the-truth could have told him how his father died, if he really
had been poisoned, and if there was witchcraft in it; then Hamlet could
have called the elders to settle the matter.”
The shrewd elder ventured to disagree. “Because his father’s
brother was a great chief, one-who-sees-the-truth might therefore
have been afraid to tell it. I think it was for that reason that a friend of
Hamlet’s father – a witch and an elder – sent an omen so his friend’s
son would know. Was the omen true?”
“Yes,” I said, abandoning ghosts and the devil; a witch-sent
omen it would have to be. “It was true, for when the storyteller was
telling his tale before all the homestead, the great chief rose in fear.
Afraid that Hamlet knew his secret he planned to have him killed.”
The stage set3 of the next bit presented some difficulties of
translation. I began cautiously. “The great chief told Hamlet’s mother
to find out from her son what he knew. But because a woman’s children are always first in her heart, he had the important elder Polonius
hide behind a cloth that hung against the wall of Hamlet’s mother’s
sleeping hut. Hamlet started to scold his mother for what she had
done.”
There was a shocked murmur from everyone. A man should
never scold his mother.
“She called out in fear, and Polonius moved behind the cloth.
Shouting, ‘A rat!’ Hamlet took his machete and slashed through the
cloth.” I paused for dramatic effect. “He had killed Polonius.”
1
barring except for, excluding
stave off to repel, to keep or hold off
3 stage set mise en scène, the situational context
2
The old men looked at each other in supreme disgust. “That
Polonius truly was a fool and a man who knew nothing! What child
would not know enough to shout, ‘It's me!’” With a pang, I remembered that these people are ardent hunters, always armed with bow,
arrow, and machete; at the first rustle in the grass an arrow is aimed
and ready, and the hunter shouts “Game!” If no human voice answers
immediately, the arrow speeds on its way. Like a good hunter, Hamlet
had shouted, “A rat!”
I rushed in to save Polonius’s reputation. “Polonius did speak.
Hamlet heard him. But he thought it was the chief and wished to kill
him to avenge his father. He had meant to kill him earlier that evening
… ” I broke down, unable to describe to these pagans, who had no
belief in individual afterlife, the difference between dying at one’s
prayers and dying “unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled1.”
This time I had shocked my audience seriously. “For a man to
raise his hand against his father’s brother and the one who has become
his father – that is a terrible thing. The elders ought to let such a man
be bewitched.”
I nibbled at my kola nut in some perplexity, then pointed out
that after all the man had killed Hamlet’s father.
“No,” pronounced the old man, speaking less to me than to
the young men sitting behind the elders. “If your father’s brother has
killed your father, you must appeal to your father’s age mates: they
may avenge him. No man may use violence against his senior relatives.” Another thought struck him. “But if his father’s brother had
indeed been wicked enough to bewitch Hamlet and make him mad
that would be a good story indeed, for it would be his fault that
Hamlet, being mad, no longer had any sense and thus was ready to kill
his father’s brother.”
There was a murmur of applause. Hamlet was again a good
story to them, but it no longer seemed quite the same story to me. As
I thought over the coming complications of plot and motive, I lost
courage and decided to skim over dangerous ground quickly.
“The great chief,” I went on, “was not sorry that Hamlet had
killed Polonius. It gave him a reason to send Hamlet away, with his two
treacherous age mates, with letters to a chief of a far country, saying
that Hamlet should be killed. But Hamlet changed the writing on their
papers, so that the chief killed his age mates instead.” I encountered a
reproachful glare from one of the men whom I had told undetectable
forgery was not merely immoral but beyond human skill. I looked the
other way.
“Before Hamlet could return, Laertes came back for his
father’s funeral. The great chief told him Hamlet had killed Polonius.
Laertes swore to kill Hamlet because of this, and because his sister
1
unhousell’d, disappointed, unaneled (quotation from Hamlet, 1.5.77) not having
received the eucharist [= housel], unprepared [dis-appointed] and not having the
benefit of extreme junction; the ghost’s very unusual language reflects the
impressiveness and strangeness of its apparition
Ophelia, hearing her father had been killed by the man she loved, went
mad and drowned in the river.”
“Have you already forgotten what we told you?” The old man
was reproachful. “One cannot take vengeance on a madman; Hamlet
killed Polonius in his madness. As for the girl, she not only went mad,
she was drowned. Only witches can make people drown. Water itself
can’t hurt anything. It is merely something one drinks and bathes in.”
I began to get cross. “If you don’t like the story, I’ll stop.”
The old man made soothing noises and himself poured me
some more beer. “You tell the story well, and we are listening. But it is
clear that the elders of your country have never told you what the
story really means. No, don’t interrupt! We believe you when you say
your marriage customs are different, or your clothes and weapons. But
people are the same everywhere; therefore, there are always witches
and it is we, the elders, who know how witches work. We told you it
was the great chief who wished to kill Hamlet, and now your own
words have proved us right. Who were Ophelia’s male relatives?”
“There were only her father and her brother.” Hamlet was
clearly out of my hands.
“There must have been many more; this also you must ask of
your elders when you get back to your country. From what you tell us,
since Polonius was dead, it must have been Laertes who killed Ophelia,
although I do not see the reason for it.”
We had emptied one pot of beer, and the old men argued the
point with slightly tipsy interest. Finally one of them demanded of me,
“What did the servant of Polonius say on his return?”
With difficulty I recollected Reynaldo and his mission. “I don’t
think he did return before Polonius was killed.”
“Listen,” said the elder, “and I will tell you how it was and how
your story will go, then you may tell me if I am right. Polonius knew his
son would get into trouble, and so he did. He had many fines to pay
for fighting, and debts from gambling. But he had only two ways of
getting money quickly. One was to marry off his sister at once, but it is
difficult to find a man who will marry a woman desired by the son of a
chief. For if the chief’s heir commits adultery with your wife, what can
you do? Only a fool calls a case against a man who will someday be his
judge. Therefore Laertes had to take the second way: he killed his
sister by witchcraft, drowning her so he could secretly sell her body to
the witches.”
I raised an objection. “They found her body and buried it.
Indeed Laertes jumped into the grave to see his sister once more – so,
you see, the body was truly there. Hamlet, who had just come back,
jumped in after him.”
“What did I tell you?” The elder appealed to the others.
“Laertes was up to no good with his sister’s body. Hamlet prevented
him, because the chief’s heir, like a chief, does not wish any other man
to grow rich and powerful. Laertes would be angry, because he would
have killed his sister without benefit to himself. In our country he
would try to kill Hamlet for that reason. Is this not what happened?”
“More or less,” I admitted. “When the great chief found
Hamlet was still alive, he encouraged Laertes to try to kill Hamlet and
arranged a fight with machetes between them. In the fight both the
young men were wounded to death. Hamlet’s mother drank the poisoned beer that the chief meant for Hamlet in case he won the fight.
When he saw his mother die of poison, Hamlet, dying, managed to kill
his father’s brother with his machete.”
“You see, I was right!” exclaimed the elder.
“That was a very good story,” added the old man, “and you
told it with very few mistakes.” There was just one more error, at the
very end. The poison Hamlet’s mother drank was obviously meant for
the survivor of the fight, whichever it was. If Laertes had won, the great
chief would have poisoned him, for no one would know that he
arranged Hamlet’s death. Then, too, he need not fear Laertes’ witchcraft; it takes a strong heart to kill one’s only sister by witchcraft.
“Sometime,” concluded the old man, gathering his ragged toga
about him, “you must tell us some more stories of your country. We,
who are elders, will instruct you in their true meaning, so that when
you return to your own land your elders will see that you have not
been sitting in the bush, but among those who know things and who
have taught you wisdom.”
Endnote:
Shakespeare’s Hamlet: plot synopsis
On a dark winter night, a ghost walks the ramparts of Elsinore Castle in Denmark.
Discovered first by a pair of watchmen, then by the scholar Horatio, the ghost
resembles the recently deceased King Hamlet, whose brother Claudius has inherited
the throne and married the king’s widow, Queen Gertrude. When Horatio and the
watchmen bring Prince Hamlet, the son of Gertrude and the dead king, to see the
ghost, it speaks to him, declaring ominously that it is indeed his father’s spirit, and that
he was murdered by none other than Claudius. Ordering Hamlet to seek revenge on
the man who usurped his throne and married his wife, the ghost disappears with the
dawn.
Prince Hamlet devotes himself to avenging his father’s death, but, because
he is contemplative and thoughtful by nature, he delays, entering into a deep melancholy and even apparent madness. Claudius and Gertrude worry about the prince’s
erratic behavior and attempt to discover its cause. They employ a pair of Hamlet’s
friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, to watch him. When Polonius, the pompous
Lord Chamberlain, suggests that Hamlet may be mad with love for his daughter,
Ophelia, Claudius agrees to spy on Hamlet in conversation with the girl. But though
Hamlet certainly seems mad, he does not seem to love Ophelia: he orders her to enter
a nunnery and declares that he wishes to ban marriages.
A group of traveling actors comes to Elsinore, and Hamlet seizes upon an
idea to test his uncle’s guilt. He will have the players perform a scene closely resembling the sequence by which Hamlet imagines his uncle to have murdered his father,
so that if Claudius is guilty, he will surely react. When the moment of the murder
arrives in the theater, Claudius leaps up and leaves the room. Hamlet and Horatio
agree that this proves his guilt. Hamlet goes to kill Claudius but finds him praying. Since
he believes that killing Claudius while in prayer would send Claudius’s soul to heaven,
Hamlet considers that it would be an inadequate revenge and decides to wait.
Claudius, now frightened of Hamlet’s madness and fearing for his own safety, orders
that Hamlet be sent to England at once.
Hamlet goes to confront his mother, in whose bedchamber Polonius has
hidden behind a tapestry. Hearing a noise from behind the tapestry, Hamlet believes
the king is hiding there. He draws his sword and stabs through the fabric, killing
Polonius. For this crime, he is immediately dispatched to England with Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern. However, Claudius’s plan for Hamlet includes more than banishment, as he has given Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sealed orders for the King of
England demanding that Hamlet be put to death.
In the aftermath of her father’s death, Ophelia goes mad with grief and
drowns in the river. Polonius’s son, Laertes, who has been staying in France, returns
to Denmark in a rage. Claudius convinces him that Hamlet is to blame for his father’s
and sister’s deaths. When Horatio and the king receive letters from Hamlet indicating
that the prince has returned to Denmark after pirates attacked his ship en route to
England, Claudius concocts a plan to use Laertes’ desire for revenge to secure Hamlet’s
death. Laertes will fence with Hamlet in innocent sport, but Claudius will poison
Laertes’ blade so that if he draws blood, Hamlet will die. As a backup plan, the king
decides to poison a goblet, which he will give Hamlet to drink should Hamlet score the
first or second hits of the match. Hamlet returns to the vicinity of Elsinore just as
Ophelia’s funeral is taking place. Stricken with grief, he attacks Laertes and declares
that he had in fact always loved Ophelia. Back at the castle, he tells Horatio that he
believes one must be prepared to die, since death can come at any moment. A foolish
courtier named Osric arrives on Claudius’s orders to arrange the fencing match
between Hamlet and Laertes.
The sword-fighting begins. Hamlet scores the first hit, but declines to drink
from the king’s proffered goblet. Instead, Gertrude takes a drink from it and is swiftly
killed by the poison. Laertes succeeds in wounding Hamlet, though Hamlet does not
die of the poison immediately. First, Laertes is cut by his own sword’s blade, and, after
revealing to Hamlet that Claudius is responsible for the queen’s death, he dies from
the blade’s poison. Hamlet then stabs Claudius through with the poisoned sword and
forces him to drink down the rest of the poisoned wine. Claudius dies, and Hamlet dies
immediately after achieving his revenge.
At this moment, a Norwegian prince named Fortinbras, who has led an army
to Denmark and attacked Poland earlier in the play, enters with ambassadors from
England, who report that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Fortinbras is
stunned by the gruesome sight of the entire royal family lying sprawled on the floor
dead. He moves to take power of the kingdom. Horatio, fulfilling Hamlet’s last request,
tells him Hamlet’s tragic story. Fortinbras orders that Hamlet be carried away in a
manner befitting a fallen soldier.
Source: http://www.sparknotes.com/shakespeare/hamlet/summary.html
Chávez, Denise “The Last of the Menu Girls” (1986)
NAME: Rocío Esquibel
AGE: Seventeen
PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE WITH THE SICK AND DYING: My Great Aunt
Eutilia
PRESENT EMPLOYMENT: Work-study1 aide2 at Altavista3 Memorial
I never wanted to be a nurse. My mother’s aunt died in our house,
seventy-seven years old and crying in her metal crib4: “Put a pillow on
the floor. I can jump,” she cried. “Go on, let me jump. I want to get
away from here, far away.”
Eutilia’s mattress was covered with chipped5 clothlike
sheaves6 of yellowed plastic. She wet herself7, was a small child, undependable8, helpless. She was an old lady with a broken hip, dying
without having gotten down from that rented bed. Her blankets were
sewn by my mother: corduroy9 patches, bright yellows, blues and
greens, and still she wanted to jump!
“Turn her over, turn her over, turn her, wait a minute, wait –
turn ... ”
Eutilia faced the wall. It was plastered white. The foamed10,
concrete turnings of some workman’s trowel11 revealed daydreams:
people’s faces, white clouds, phantom pianos slowly playing half lost
Text based on: Chávez, Denise. 1986. The Last of the Menu Girls. Houston: Arte Publico
Press. See pp. 11-38.
Many thanks are due to Aurélie Lhoas, whose end-of-year paper (UNamur, Langues et
littératures germaniques, ba3, 2008-2009) provided the basis for the present edition.
Thanks also to Dr Inmaculada Serón Ordóñez for help with several of the Spanish
glosses here and elsewhere in this anthology.
Explanations carrying the mention [N] have been borrowed from Baym, Nina (ed.)
(1999) The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Shorter Fifth edition (New
York/London: Norton), pp. 2355-2374. Explanations carrying the mention [W] have
been borrowed from Wikipedia.
1
work-study relating to an academic programme that enables high-school or college
students to gain work experience and make money while continuing their studies
2 aide assistant, helper
3 Altavista literally, “High View”, it is situated in New Mexico [N]
4 crib a child’s bed with enclosed sides
5 chip to break or cut sth at the edge or surface
6 sheaf (pl. sheaves) a bundle of papers tied together
7 wet oneself to urinate on oneself
8 undependable not reliable, not to be trusted
9 corduroy a thick cotton material (Fr. velours côtelé)
10 foam to be covered with or to make small bubbles (Fr. mousser)
11 trowel (for cement) a small tool with a flat blade, used for spreading mortar on
bricks or stone, plaster on walls, etc.
Chávez “The Last of the Menu Girls” (2)
melodies, “Las Mañanitas1,” “Cielito Lindo2,” songs formulated in
expectation, dissolved into confusion. Eutilia’s blurred faces, far off
tunes faded3 into the white walls, into jagged4, broken waves.
I never wanted to be a nurse, ever. All that gore5 and blood
and grief. I was not as squeamish6 as my sister Mercy, who could not
stand to put her hands into a sinkful7 of dirty dishes filled with floating
food – wet bread, stringy8 vegetables and bits of softened meat. Still,
I didn’t like the touch, the smells. How could I? When I touched my
mother’s feet, I looked away, held my nose with one hand, the other
with finger laced9 along her toes, pulling and popping10 them into
place. “It really helps my arthritis, baby – you don’t know. Pull my toes,
I’ll give you a dollar, find my girdle11, and I’ll give you two. Ouch. Ouch.
Not so hard. There, that’s good. Look at my feet. You see the veins?
Look at them. Aren’t they ugly? And up here, look where I had the
operations ... ugly, they stripped12 them and still they hurt me.”
She rubbed her battered13 flesh wistfully14, placed a delicate
and lovely hand on her right thigh15. Mother said proudly, truthfully, “I
still have lovely thighs.”
PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE WITH THE SICK AND DYING: Let me think ...
Great Aunt Eutilia came to live with us one summer and seven months
later she died in my father’s old study16, the walls lined17 with books,
whatever answers were there – unread.
Great Aunt Eutilia smelled like the mercilessly18 sick. At first, a
vague, softened aroma of tiredness and spilled food. And later, the
full-blown19 emptyings of the dying: gas, putrefaction and fetid20
lucidity. Her body poured out long, held-back odors. She wet her
1
Las Mañanitas a song meaning “Little Mornings” (Spanish); it is traditionally sung as
a morning serenade to a girl turning fifteen, but can also be sung on Mother’s Day or
for birthdays [N]
2 Cielito Lindo a song meaning “Beautiful Little Sky” (Spanish); it has become almost
a national folk song, in which a boy praises his girl’s eyes, which possess, for him, the
lovely, light-giving qualities of the sky [N]
3 fade to lose colour, freshness or vigour
4 jagged sharply irregular at the surface or at the borders
5 gore blood that is shed or poured
6 squeamish easily disgusted
7 sink a basin in a kitchen used for washing tableware
8 stringy resembling a cord
9 lace to intertwine
10 pop sth to put sth somewhere quickly or suddenly
11 girdle an undergarment, worn esp. by women for supporting and giving a slimmer
appearance to the abdomen, hips and buttocks
12 strip to remove
13 battered out of shape because of age
14 wistful characterized by a pensive longing or yearning
15 thigh part of the lower limb in humans between the hip and the knee
16 study a room for private study, reading or writing
17 line to cover
18 mercilessly showing no pity
19 full-blown fully developed
20 fetid stinking, having an offensive odour
diapers1 and sheets and knocked over2 medicines and glasses of tepid3
water, leaving in the air an unpleasant smell.
I danced around her bed in my dreams, naked, smiling, jubilant. It was an exultant4 adolescent dance for my dying aunt. It was
necessary, compulsive. It was a primitive dance, a full moon offering
that led me slithering5 into her room with breasts naked and oily at
thirteen ...
No one home but me.
Led me to her room, my father’s refuge, those halcyon days6
now that he was gone – and all that remained were dusty books, cast
iron7 bookends, reminders of the spaces he filled. Down the steps I
leaped into Eutilia’s faded and foggy consciousness where I whirled
and danced and sang: I am your flesh and my mother’s flesh and you
are ... are ... Eutilia stared at me. I turned away.
I danced around Eutilia’s bed. I hugged8 the screen door9, my
breasts indented10 in the meshed11 wire. In the darkness Eutilia
moaned, my body wet, her body dry. Steamy12 we were, and full of
prayers.
Could I have absolved your dying by my life? Could I have
lessened your agony with my spirit-filled dance in the deep darkness?
The blue fan13 stirred, then whipped nonstop the solid air; little razors
sliced through consciousness and prodded14 the sick and dying
woman, whose whitened eyes screeched15: Ay! Ay! Let me jump, put
a pillow, I want to go away ... let me ... let me …
One day while playing “Cielito Lindo” on the piano in the living
room, Eutilia got up and fell to the side of the piano stool. Her foot
caught on the rug, “¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Ay! Canta y no llores ... 16”
All requests were silenced. Eutilia rested in her tattered17
hospital gown, having shredded it to pieces. She was surrounded by
little white strips of raveled18 cloth. Uncle Toño, her babysitter, after
watching the evening news, found her naked and in a bed of cloth. She
stared at the ceiling, having played the piano far into the night. She
1
diaper (US Eng) nappy (Fr. couche)
knock over to throw down, to spill
3 tepid neither warn nor cold, lukewarm
4 exultant very happy
5 slither to move somewhere in a smooth, controlled way, often close to the ground
6 halcyon days happy and peaceful days
7 cast iron type of hard iron that will not bend easily
8 hug to put your arms around sby and hold them tightly, esp. to show that you like
or love them
9 screen door a door consisting of a wire net with very small holes stretched over a
frame, which allows air but not insects to move through it
10 indent to impress (a mark, a pattern ... )
11 mesh material made of wire or plastic rope that are twisted together like a net
12 steamy hot and wet
13 fan a machine with blades that go round to create a current of air
14 prod to give sby/sth a quick push with your finger or with a pointed object
15 screech to make a loud high unpleasant sound and to use this sound to say sth
16 canta y no llores Sing and don’t cry (Spanish) [N]
17 tattered old and torn
18 ravel to reduce to threads, to disintegrate
2
listened to sounds coming from around the back of her head. Just
listened. Just looked. Just shredded. Shredded the rented gown,
shredded it. When the lady of the house returned and asked how was
she, meaning, does she breathe, Toño answered, “Fine.”
Christ on his crucifix! He’d never gone into the room to check
on her. Later, when they found her, Toño cried, his cousin laughed.
They hugged each other, then cried, then laughed, then cried. Eutilia’s
fingers never rested. They played beautiful tunes. She was a little girl
in tatters in her metal bed with sideboards that went up and down, up
and down ...
The young girls danced they played they danced they filled
1
out forms.
PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT: None.
There was always a first job, as there was the first summer of the very
first boyfriend. That was the summer of our first swamp cooler2. The
heat bore down and congealed sweat. It made rivulets3 trace the
body’s meridian and, before it stopped, was wiped away, never quite
dismissed.
On the tops of the neighbors’ houses old swamp coolers, with
their jerky4 grating and droning5 moans, strained6 to ease the southern
implacabilities. Whrr whrr cough whrr.
Regino Suárez climbed up and down the roof, first forgetting
his hammer and then the cooler filter. His boy, Eliterio, stood at the
bottom of the steps that led to the sun deck7 and squinted8 dumbly at
the blazing sun. For several days Regino tramped9 over my dark purple
bedroom. I had shut the curtains to both father and son and rested in
violet contemplation of my first boyfriend.
Regino stomped10 his way to the other side of the house where
Eutilia lay in her metal crib, trying to sleep, her weary11 eyes
uncomprehending. The noise was upsetting, she could not play. The
small blue fan wheezed12 freshness. Regino hammered and paced13
then climbed down. When lunchtime came, a carload of fat daughters
drove Regino and the handsome son away.
If Eutilia could have read a book, it would have been the Bible,
1
fill out to fill in, complete
swamp cooler a simple type of air conditioner
3 rivulet a small stream
4 jerky making abrupt starts and stops
5 drone a continuous low noise
6 strain to make an effort to do sth
7 sun deck a place beside a building, where people can sit to enjoy the sun
8 squint to look at sth with your eyes partly shut in order to see better
9 tramp to walk with heavy or noisy steps
10 stomp to walk with heavy steps
11 weary tired
12 wheeze to make a sound that resembles difficult breathing
13 pace to walk back and forth
2
or maybe her novena1 to the Santo Niño de Atocha2, he was her boy
...
PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE WITH THE SICK AND DYING:
This question reminds me of a story my mother told me about a very
old woman, Doña Mercedes, who was dying of cancer. Doña Mercedes
lived with her daughter, Corina, who was my mother’s friend. The old
woman lay in bed, day after day, moaning and crying softly, not
actually crying out, but whimpering3 in a sad, hopeless way. “Don’t
move me,” she begged when her daughter tried to change the sheets
or bathe her. Every day this ordeal4 of maintenance became worse. It
was a painful thing and full of dread for the old woman, the once
fastidious5 and upright Doña Mercedes. She had been a lady, straight
and imposing, and with a headful of rich dark hair. Her ancestors were
from Spain. “You mustn’t move me, Corina,” Doña Mercedes pleaded,
“never, please. Leave me alone, mi’jita6,” and so the daughter
acquiesced. Cleaning around her tortured flesh and delicately wiping7
where they could, the two women attended to8 Doña Mercedes. She
died in the daytime, as she had wanted.
When the young women went to lift the old lady from her
death bed, they struggled to pull her from the sheets; and, when finally
they turned her on her side, they saw huge gaping9 holes in her back
where the cancer had eaten through the flesh. The sheets were
stained10, the bedsores11 lost in a red wash of bloody pus. Doña
Mercedes’ cancer had eaten its way through her back and onto those
sheets. “Don’t move me, please don’t move me,” she had cried.
The two young women stuffed12 piles of shredded disinfected
rags13 soaked14 in Lysol15 into Doña Mercedes’ chest cavity, filling it,
and horrified, with cloths over their mouths, said the prayers for the
dead. Everyone remembered her as tall and straight and very Spanish.
PRESENT EMPLOYMENT: Work-study aide at Altavista Memorial
1
novena a Roman Catholic devotion or prayer [N]
Santo Niño de Atocha (Sp.) “Holy child of Atocha”; Atocha is believed to be a local
saint; the child is a Christ child, who goes out every night looking for people to help,
and coming back each morning with his shoes muddy and his clothes dirty [N]
3 whimper to cry softly
4 ordeal a difficult or unpleasant experience
5 fastidious being careful that every detail of sth is correct
6 mi’jita (Sp.) my little daughter [N]
7 wipe to clean or dry sth by rubbing its surface with a cloth
8 attend to take care of
9 gaping wide open
10 stained with dirty marks that are difficult to remove
11 bedsore a painful and sometimes infected place on the skin, caused by having to
lie in bed for a long time without changing position (Fr. une escarre)
12 stuff to fill a space with sth
13 rag a piece of old and torn cloth
14 soaked completely wet, saturated
15 Lysol brand name of a disinfectant household cleaner, which disinfects food
surfaces and removes odors [W]
2
Hospital
I never wanted to be a nurse. Never. The smells. The pain. What was I
to do then, working in a hospital, in that place of white women, whiter
men with square faces? I had no skills. Once in the seventh grade1 I’d
gotten a penmanship2 award. Swirling R’s in boredom, the ABC’s ad
infinitum. Instead of dipping chocolate cones at the Dairy Queen3 next
door to the hospital, I found myself a frightened girl in a black skirt and
white blouse standing near the stairwell4 to the cafeteria.
I stared up at a painting of a dark-haired woman in a stiff5
nurse’s cap and grey tunic, tending6 to men in old fashioned service
uniforms. There was a beauty in that woman’s face whoever she was7.
I saw myself in her, helping all of mankind, forgetting and absolving all
my own sick, my own dying, especially relatives, all of them so far
away, removed. I never wanted to be like Great Aunt Eutilia, or Doña
Mercedes with the holes in her back, or my mother, her scarred8 legs,
her whitened thighs.
MR. SMITH
Mr. Smith sat at his desk surrounded by requisition9 forms. He looked
up to me with glassy eyes like filmy paperweights.
MOTHER OF GOD, MR. SMITH WAS A WALLEYED10 HUNCHBACK11!
“Mr. Smith, I’m Rocío Esquibel, the work-study student from
the university and I was sent down here to talk to you about my job.”
“Down here, down here,” he laughed, as if it were a private
joke. “Oh, yes, you must be the new girl. Menus,” he mumbled12. “Now
just have a seat and we’ll see what we can do. Would you like some
iced tea?”
It was nine o’clock in the morning, too early for tea. “No, well,
yes, that would be nice.”
“It’s good tea, everyone likes it. Here, I’ll get you some.” Mr.
1
seventh grade the seventh school year after kindergarten; the pupils are usu. 12 or
13 years old [W]
2 penmanship calligraphy, the art of writing by hand
3 Dairy Queen an international chain of ice cream and fast food restaurants [W]
4 stairwell the vertical shaft enclosing the stairs in a building
5 stiff hard, firm, difficult to bend
6 tend to to care for
7 whoever she was in reality this is a picture of Florence Nightingale (1820-1910), a
British nurse who organized hospitals during the Crimean War, established a training
school for nurses, and is widely regarded as the pioneer of modern nursing methods
8 scarred covered with scars (a scar is a mark on the skin which is left after a wound
has healed)
9 requisition an application
10 be walleyed to have eyes that show an abnormal amount of white, esp. the irises
turn outwards, having glaring eyes
11 hunchback a person who has a hump on their back, like Quasimodo in “The
hunchback of Notre Dame”
12 mumble to speak or say sth in a quiet voice and in a poorly articulated manner
Smith got up, more hunchbacked than I’d imagined. He tiptoed1 out of
the room whispering, “Tea, got to get this girl some tea.”
There was a bit of the gruesome2 Golom3 in him, a bit of the
twisted spider in the dark. Was I to work for this gnome? I wanted to
rescue souls, not play attendant to this crippled4, dried up specimen,
this cartilaginous insect with his misshapen head and eyes that
peered5 out to me like the marbled eyes of statues one sees in
museums. History preserves its freaks. God, was my job to do the
same? No, never!
I faced Dietary Awards, Degrees in Food Management, menus
for Low Salt and Fluids; the word Jello6 leaped out at every turn. I
touched the walls. They were moist, never having seen the light.
In my dreams, Mr. Smith was encased7 in green Jello; his formaldehyde8 breath reminded me of other smells – decaying, saddened
dead things; my great aunt, biology class in high school9, my friend
Dolores Casaus. Each of us held a tray10 with a dead frog pinned in
place, served to us by a tall stoop-shouldered11 Viking turned farmer,
our biology teacher Mr. Franke, pink-eyed, half blind. Dolores and I cut
into the chest cavity and explored that small universe of dead cold
fibers. Dolores stopped at the frog’s stomach, then squeezed out12 its
last meal, a green mash, spinach-colored, a viscous fluid – that was all
that remained in that miniaturized, unresponding organ, all that was
left of potential life.
Before Eutilia died she ate a little, mostly drank juice through
bent and dripping13 hospital straws. The straws littered the floor
where she’d knocked them over in her wild frenzy14 to escape.
“Dioooooooos15,” she cried in that shrill16 voice. “Dios mío, Diosito, por
favor17. Ay, I won’t tell your mamá, just help me get away ... Diosito de
mi vida ... Diosito de mi corazón … agua, agua ... por favor, por favor ...
18
”
1
tiptoe to walk very quietly without putting your heels on the floor
gruesome extremely disturbing or repellent
3 Golom Golem, a frightening creature from Hebrew folklore that is somewhat like
Frankenstein’s monster
4 crippled disabled, not able to move normally
5 peer to look closely or carefully at sth, esp. when you cannot see it clearly
6 Jello a fruit-flavoured gelatine dessert
7 encased in sth completely covered or surrounded by sth
8 formaldehyde a gas with a strong smell, used as a preservative and disinfectant
when dissolved in water
9 high school (US) a secondary school
10 tray a flat piece of plastic or wood, used for carrying or holding things (e.g. food or
drinks)
11 stoop-shouldered having dropping shoulders
12 squeeze out to get liquid out of sth by pressing or twisting it hard
13 dripping having cracks so that the liquid can come through
14 frenzy state of extreme excitement; extreme or wild activity or behaviour
15 Dios (Sp.) “God”
16 shrill very high and loud, in an unpleasant way
17 Dios mío, Diosito, por favor (Sp.) My God, oh, my dear God, please [N]
18 Diosito de mi vida ... Diosito de mi corazón … agua, agua ... por favor, por favor
(Sp.) Dear God of my life ... dear God of my heart ... water, water … please, please
2
Mr. Smith returned with my iced tea.
“Sugar?”
Sugar, yes, sugar. Lots of it. Was I to spend all summer in this
smelly cage? What was I to do? What? And for whom? I had no business here1. It was summertime and my life stretched out magically in
front of me: there was my boyfriend, my freedom. Senior year2 had
been the happiest of my life; was it to change?
“Anytime you want to come down and get a glass of tea, you
go right ahead. We always have it on hand. Everyone likes my tea,” he
said with pride.
“About the job?” I asked.
Mr. Smith handed me a pile of green forms. They were menus.
In the center of the menu was listed the day of the week, and
to the left and coming down in a neat order were the three meals,
breakfast, lunch and dinner. Each menu had various choices for each
meal.
LUNCH:
 Salisbury Steak3
 Mashed potatoes and gravy6
 Fish sticks
 Macaroni and cheese
 Enchiladas4
 Broccoli and onions
 Rice almondine5
Drinks
Dessert
 Coffee
 Jello
 Tea
 Carrot cake8

 Ice Cream, vanilla
7-Up7
 Other
“Here you see a menu for Friday, listing the three meals. Let’s
take lunch. You have a choice of Salisbury steak, enchiladas, they’re
really good, Trini makes them, she’s been working for me for twenty
years. Her son George Jr. works for me, too, probably his kids one day.”
At this possibility, Mr. Smith laughed at himself. “Oh, and fish sticks.
You a ... ?”
1
I had no business here it was not my place to be here
senior year the final year of secondary education
3 Salisbury steak minced beef shaped to resemble a steak and usu. served in brown
sauce [W]
4 Enchilada a tortilla served with a hot chili sauce
5 rice almondine a dish containing rice, vegetable, chicken and almonds
6 gravy brown sauce made by adding flour to the juices that come out of meat while
it is cooking
7 7-Up a lemon-lime flavored non-caffeinated soft drink [W]
8 carrot cake a sweet cake with grated carrot mixed into the batter (a liquid mixture)
[W]
2
“Our Lady of the Holy Scapular1.”
“Sometimes I’ll get a menu back with a thank you written on
the side, ‘Thanks for the liver2, it was real good,’ or ‘I haven’t had rice
pudding3 since I was a boy.’ Makes me feel good to know we’ve made
our patients happy.”
Mr. Smith paused, reflecting on4 the positive aspects of his job.
“Mind you, these menus are only for people on regular diets,
not everybody, but a lot of people. I take care of the other special
diets, that doesn’t concern you. I have a girl working for me now,
Arlene Rutschman. You know …”
My mind raced forward, backward. Arlene Rutschman, the
Arlene from Holy Scapular, Arlene of the soft voice, the limp5 mannerisms, the plain6, too goodly face, Arlene, president of Our Lady’s
Sodality7, in her white and navy blue beanie8, her bobby socks9 and
horn-rimmed10 glasses, the Arlene of the school dances with her
perpetual escort, Bennie Lara, the toothy better-than-no-date date,
the Arlene of the high grades, the muscular, yet turned-in legs, the
curly unattractive hair, that Arlene, the dud11?
“Yes, I know her.”
“Good!”
“We went to school together.”
“Wonderful!”
“She works here?”
“Oh, she’s a nice girl. She’ll help you, show you what to do,
how to distribute the menus.”
“Distribute the menus?”
“Now you just sit there, drink your tea and tell me about yourself.”
This was the first of many conversations with Mr. Smith, the
hunchbacked dietician, a man who was never anything but kind to
me.
“Hey,” he said proudly, “these are my kids. Norma and Bardwell. Norma’s in Junior High12, majoring13 in boys, and Bardwell is
graduating from the Military Institute.”
1
our Lady of the Holy Scapular name of the sodality (religious association in the
Roman Catholic Church) to which Rocío belongs
2 liver Fr. le foie
3 rice pudding a dessert prepared with rice, vanilla and milk
4 reflect on sth to think carefully and deeply about sth
5 limp not stiff or firm
6 plain simple, not beautiful, not special
7 Sodality Fr. la confrérie
8 beanie a small close fitting hat worn at the back of the head
9 bobby socks short white socks worn with a dress or skirt, esp. in the US in the
1940s and 50s
10 horn-rimmed with frames made of material that looks like horn (Fr. à monture
d’écaille)
11 dud sby or sth that fails to work properly or is disappointingly unsuccessful
12 Junior High School a “bridge” between the Elementary School and the High School
[W]
13 major in sth to study sth as your main subject at a university or college
“Bardwell. That’s an unusual name,” I said as I stared at a
series of 5 x 7’s1 on Mr. Smith’s desk.
“Bardwell, well, that was my father’s name. Bardwell B. Smith.
The Bard, they called him!” At this he chuckled to himself2, myopically
recalling his father, tracing with his strange eyes patterns of living flesh
and bone.
“He used to recite.”
The children looked fairly normal. Norma was slight, with a
broad toothy smile. Bardwell, or Bobby, as he was called, was not
unhandsome in his uniform, if it weren’t for one ragged3, splayed4 ear
that slightly cupped5 forward, as if listening to something.
Mrs. Smith’s image was nowhere in sight6. “Camera shy,” he
said. To the right of Mr. Smith’s desk hung a plastic gold framed prayer
beginning with the words: “Oh Lord of Pots and Pans.” To the left, near
a dried out water-cooler was a sign, “Bless This Mess.”
Over the weeks I began to know something of Mr. Smith’s con7
voluted life, its anchorings. His wife and children came to life, and Mr.
Smith acquired a name: Marion, and a vague disconcerting sexuality.
It was upsetting8 for me to imagine him fathering9 Norma and
Bardwell. I stared into the framed glossies full of disbelief. Who was
Mrs. Smith? What was she like?
Eutilia never had any children. She’d been married to José
Esparza, a good man, a handsome man. They ran10 a store in Agua
Tibia11. They prospered, until one day, early in the morning, about
three a.m., several men from El Otro Lado12 called out to them in the
house. “Don José, wake up! We need to buy supplies.” Eutilia was
afraid, said, “No, José, don’t let them in.” He told her, “Woman, what
are we here for?” And she said, “But at this hour, José? At this hour?”
Don José let them into the store. The two men came in carrying two
sacks, one that was empty, and another that they said was full of
money. They went through the store, picking out hats, clothing, tins of
corned beef, and stuffing them into the empty sack. “So many things,
José,” Eutilia whispered, “too many things!” “Oh no,” one man replied,
“we have the money, don’t you trust us, José?” “Cómo no,
1
5 x 7 photograph measuring 5 by 7 inches
chuckle to oneself Fr. rire sous sa cape
3 ragged having an outline, an edge or a surface that is not straight or even
4 splayed wide open
5 cupped to have a round shape, somewhat like a cup of bowl
6 nowhere in sight impossible for anyone to find or see
7 convoluted complicated, having many parts or aspects that are complexly
interrelated
8 upsetting making you feel unhappy, anxious or annoyed
9 father to make a woman pregnant and become the father of sby
10 run sth to be in charge of a business or a service
11 Agua Tibia (lit., Sp. “warm water”) a place in South California, near the Mexican
border
12 El Otro Lado (Sp.) the other side, i.e. the other side of the border with Mexico
2
compadre1,” he replied easily. “We need the goods, don’t be afraid,
compadre.” “Too many things, too many things,” Eutilia sighed2,
huddled3 in the darkness in her robe. She was a small woman, with the
body of a little girl. Eutilia looked at José, and it was then that they
both knew. When the two men had loaded up, they turned to Don
José, took out a gun, which was hidden in a sack, and said, “So sorry,
compadre, but you know ... stay there, don’t follow us.” Eutilia hugged
the darkness, saying nothing for the longest time. José was a
handsome man, but dumb.
The village children made fun of José Esparza, laughed at him
and pinned4 notes and pieces of paper to his pants. “Tonto, tonto5”
and “I am a fool.” He never saw these notes, wondered why they
laughed.
“I’ve brought you a gift, a bag of rocks”; all fathers have said
that to their children. Except Don José Esparza. He had no children,
despite his looks6. “At times a monkey can do better than a prince,” la
comadre7 Lucaya used to say to anyone who would listen.
The bodies of patients twisted and moaned and cried out, and
cursed , but for the two of us in that basement9 world, all was quiet
save for the occasional clinking10 of an iced tea glass and the sporadic
sound of Mr. Smith clearing his throat.
“There’s no hurry,” Mr. Smith always said. “Now you just take
your time. Always in a hurry. A young person like you.”
8
ARLENE RUTSCHMAN
“You’re so lucky that you can speak Spanish,” Arlene intoned11. She
stood tiptoes, held her breath, then knocked gently on the patient’s
door. No sound. A swifter knock. “I could never remember what a
turnip12 was,” she said.
“Whatjawant13?” a voice bellowed14.
“I’m the menu girl; can I take your order?”
1
cómo no, compadre (Sp.) of course, friend; ‘compadre’ is a term of address which
can imply a number of different relationships, among them friend and godfather
2 sigh to take and then let out a long deep breath that can be heard, to show that
you are disappointed, sad or tired
3 huddle to gather closely together
4 pin to attach sth onto another thing
5 tonto, tonto (Sp.) stupid [N]
6 looks attractive physical appearance
7 la comadre (Sp.) the godmother of one’s daughter (both mother and godmother
are considered, and consider themselves, as co-mothers) [N]
8 curse to say rude things, to swear
9 basement a room or set of rooms below the surface of the ground
10 clink to make a sharp ringing sound, like that of glasses being hit against each
other
11 intone to utter in a monotonous singing manner
12 turnip Fr. le navet
13 whatjawant what do you want
14 bellow to shout in a loud deep voice, esp. because you are angry
Arlene’s high tremulous little girl’s voice trailed off1, “Good
morning, Mr. Samaniego! What’ll it be? No, it’s not today you leave,
tomorrow, after lunch. Your wife is coming to get you. So, what’ll it be
for your third-to-the-last meal? Now we got poached2 or fried eggs3.
Poached. P-o-a-c-h-e-d. That’s like a little hard in the middle, but a little
soft on the outside. Firm. No, not like scrambled4. Different. Okay, you
want scrambled. Juice? We got grape or orange. You like grape? Two
grape. And some coffee, black.”
A tall Anglo5 man, gaunt6 and yellowed like an old newspaper,
his eyes rubbed black like an old raccoon’s7, ranged the hallway. The
man talked quietly to himself and smoked numbers of cigarettes as he
weaved8 between attendants9 with half-filled urinals and lugubrious
I.V.’s10. He reminded me of my father’s friends, angular Anglos in their
late fifties, men with names like Bud or Earl, men who owned garages
or steak houses11, men with firm hairy arms, clear blue eyes and
tattoos from the war.
“That’s Mr. Ellis, 206.” Arlene whispered, “jaundice12.”
“Oh,” I said, curiously contemptuous13 and nervous at the
same time, unhappy and reeling14 from the phrase, “I’m the menu
girl!” How’d I ever manage to get such a dumb job? At least the Candy
Stripers15 wore a cute uniform, and they got to do fun things like
deliver flowers and candy.
“Here comes Mrs. Samaniego. The wife.”
“Mr. Ellis’s wife?” I said, with concern.
“No, Mr. Samaniego’s wife, Donelda.” Arlene pointed to a
1
trail off to become gradually quieter and then stop
poached egg an egg that is cooked in nearly boiling water after removing its shell
3 fried egg an egg cooked in hot fat or oil and whose yellow part is still liquid
4 scrambled egg an egg whose white and yellow parts have been mixed together
before cooking
5 Anglo a White American (having origins in any of the original peoples of Europe)
who is not of Hispanic or Latino origin; the term is used without regard to whether or
not the people are of English descent [W]
6 gaunt suffering extreme weight loss as a result of hunger or disease
7 raccoon a small North American animal with greyish-brown fur, black marks on its
face and a thick tail (Fr. le raton laveur)
8 weave to move this way and that, in order to avoid obstacles
9 attendant a person whose job is to serve or help people in a public place
10 I.V. intravenous, i.e. a device to inject liquid substances directly into a vein
11 steak house a restaurant where you only eat steaks
12 jaundice disease which makes the skin and the white parts of the eyes become
abnormally yellow
13 contemptuous showing that you think sby/sth is unimportant or worthless
14 reel to feel very shocked, confused or upset about sth
15 Candy Striper a hospital volunteer; they are sometimes nicknamed a candy striper,
because of the red-and-white striped jumpers they wear, which resemble stick
candy; they usu. deliver flowers, sweets … for the sick people
2
wizened1 and giggly2 old woman who was sneaking3 by the information
desk, past the silver-haired volunteer, several squirmy4 grandchildren
in tow5. Visiting hours began at two p.m., but Donelda Samaniego had
come early to beat the rush6. From the hallway, Arlene and I heard
loud smacks, much kidding and general merriment. The room smelled
of tamales7.
“Old Mr. Phillips in 304, that’s the Medical Floor, he gets his
8
cath at eleven, so don’t go ask him about his menu then. It upsets his
stomach.”
Mrs. Daniels in 210 told Arlene weakly, “Honey, yes, you,
honey, who’s the other girl? Who is she? You’ll just have to come back
later, I don’t feel good. I’m a dying woman, can’t you see that?” When
we came back an hour later, Mrs. Daniels was asleep, snoring loudly.
Mrs. Gustafson, a sad wet-eyed, well-dressed woman in her
late sixties, dismissed us9 from the shade of drawn curtains as her
husband, G.P. “Gus” Gustafson, the judge, took long and fitful10 naps
only to wake up again, then go back to sleep, beginning once more his
inexorable round of disappearances.
“Yesterday I weighed myself in the hall and I’m getting fat. Oh,
and you’re so thin.”
“The hips,” I said, “the hips.”
“You know, you remind me of that painting,” Arlene said,
thoughtfully.
“Which?”
“Not which, who. The one in the stairwell. Florence Nightingale, she looks like you.”
“That’s who that is!”
“The eyes.”
“She does?”
“The eyes.”
“The eyes?”
“And the hair.”
“The eyes and the hair? Maybe the hair, but not the eyes.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes! Every time I look at it.”
“Me?”
1
wizened looking smaller and having many folds and lines in the skin, because of
being old
2 giggly laughing a lot in a silly, nervous way
3 sneak to go somewhere secretly, trying to avoid being seen
4 squirmy moving around a lot and making small twisting movements, because you
are nervous or uncomfortable
5 in tow if you have sby in tow, they are with you and are following closely behind
6 beat the rush to go somewhere before crowds of people get there
7 tamales Mexican delicacy, made of crushed Indian corn, flavoured with pieces of
meat or chicken, red pepper … wrapped in cornhusks and baked
8 cath a catheter, i.e. a thin tube inserted into a body opening for medical purposes
9 dismiss sby to tell sby to go away
10 fitful only for short periods, not continuous or regular
Arlene and I sat talking at our table in the cafeteria, that later
was to become my table. It faced the dining room. From that vantage
point1 I could see everything and not be seen.
We talked, two friends almost, if only she weren’t so, so, little
girlish with ribbons. Arlene was still dating Bennie and was majoring in
either home ec2 or biology. They seemed the same in my mind: babies,
menus and frogs. Loathsome3, unpleasant things.
It was there, in the coolness of the cafeteria, in that respite4
from the green forms, at our special table, drinking tea, laughing with
Arlene, that I, still shy, still judgmental5, still wondering and still afraid,
under the influence of caffeine, decided to stick it out6. I would not
quit the job.
“How’s Mr. Prieto in 200?”
“He left yesterday, but he’ll be coming back. He’s dying.”
“Did you see old Mr. Carter? They strapped7 him to the wheelchair finally.”
“It was about time. He kept falling over.”
“Mrs. Domínguez went to bland8.”
“She was doing so well.”
“You think so? She couldn’t hardly chew. She kept choking9.”
“And that grouch10, what’s her name, the head nurse, Stevens
in 214 …”
“She’s the head nurse? I didn’t know that – god, I filled out her
menu for her ... she was sleeping and I ... no wonder she was mad ...
how did I know she was the head nurse?”
“It’s okay. She’s going home or coming back, I can’t remember
which. Esperanza González is gonna be in charge.”
“She was real mad.”
“Forget it, it’s okay.”
“The woman will never forgive me, I’ll lose my job,” I sighed.
I walked home past the Dairy Queen. It took five minutes at
the most. I stopped midway at the ditch’s11 edge, where the earth rose
and where there was a concrete embankment12 on which to sit. To
some this was the quiet place, where neighborhood lovers met on
summer nights to kiss, and where older couples paused between their
1
vantage point a position from which you watch sth
home ec home economics or family and consumer sciences; an academic discipline
that combines aspects of social and natural science; it deals with the relationship
between individuals, families, and communities, and the environment in which they
live [W]
3 loathsome extremely unpleasant, disgusting
4 respite a short break or escape from sth difficult or unpleasant
5 judgmental inclined to make judgments, esp. critical or negative ones
6 stick sth out to continue doing sth to the end, even when it is difficult or boring
7 strap to fasten sby or sth in place using a strip of leather, cloth or other material
8 go to bland to be put on a bland diet (bland = not irritating or stimulating)
9 choke to be unable to breathe because the passage to your lungs is blocked or you
cannot get enough air
10 grouch an irritable and complaining person
11 ditch a long narrow channel dug in the earth
12 embankment a wall of stone or earth made to keep water back
2
evening walks to rest. It was also the talking place, where all the
neighbor kids discussed life while eating hot fudge sundae1 with nuts.
The bench was large; four could sit on it comfortably. It faced an open
field in the middle of which stood a huge apricot tree. Lastly, the bench
was a stopping place, the “throne,” we called it. We took off hot shoes
and dipped our cramped feet into the cool ditch water, as we sat facing
the southern sun at the quiet talking place, at our thrones, not thinking
anything, eyes closed, but sun. The great red velvet2 sun.
One night I dreamt of food, wading through3 hallways of food,
inside some dark evil stomach. My boyfriend waved to me from the
ditch’s bank. I sat on the throne, ran alongside his car, a blue Ford, in
which he sat, on clear plastic seat covers, with that hungry Church-ofChrist smile4 of his. He drove away, and when he returned, the car was
small and I was too big to get inside.
Eutilia stirred5. She was tired. She did not recognize anyone. I
danced around the bed, crossed myself6, en el nombre del padre, del
hijo y del espíritu santo7, crossed forehead, chin and breast, begged
for forgiveness even as I danced.
And on waking, I remembered. Nabos8. Turnips. But of course.
It seemed right to me to be working in a hospital, to be helping
people, and yet: why was I only a menu girl? Once a menu was
completed, another would take its place and the next day another. It
was a never ending round of food and more food. I thought of Judge
Gustafson.
When Arlene took a short vacation to the Luray Caverns9, I
became the official menu girl. That week was the happiest of my entire
summer.
That week I fell in love.
ELIZABETH RAINEY
Elizabeth Rainey, Room 240, was in for a D and C10. I didn’t know what
a D and C was, but I knew it was mysterious and to me, of course, this
1
hot fudge sundae vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce (hence the “hot
fudge”), whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on the top [W]
2 velvet a type of cloth made from silk, cotton or nylon, with a thick soft surface (Fr.
le velours)
3 wade through sth to walk with an effort through sth
4 Church-of-Christ smile a smile expressing simple but strong conviction
5 stir to move slightly
6 cross oneself to make the sign of a cross by moving ones hand across the top half
of one’s body
7 en el nombre del padre, del hijo y del espíritu santo (Sp.) in the name of the
Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost
8 nabos (Sp.) turnips
9 Luray Caverns famous caves in the west of Luray, Virginia, USA [W]
10 D and C dilation and curettage, i.e. expanding and cleaning the uterus by scraping
[N]
meant it had to do with sex. Elizabeth Rainey was propped up1 in bed
with many pillows, a soft blue, homemade quilt2 at the foot of her bed.
Her cheeks were flushed3, her red lips quivering4. She looked fragile,
and yet her face betrayed a harsh indelicate bitterness. She wore a
creme-colored gown on which her loose hair fell about her like a cape.
She was a beautiful woman, full-bodied5, with the translucent beauty
certain women have in the midst of sorrow – clear and unadorned6,
her eyes bright with inexplicable and self-contained suffering.
She cried out to me rudely, as if I personally had offended her.
“What do you want? Can’t you see I want to be alone. Now close the
door and go away! Go away!”
“I’m here to get your menu.” I could not bring myself to say,
I’m the menu girl.
“Go away, go away, I don’t want anything. I don’t want to eat.
Close the door!”
Elizabeth Rainey pulled her face away from me and turned to
the wall, and, with deep and self-punishing exasperation, grit7 her
teeth, and from the depths of her self-loathing8 a small inarticulate cry
escaped – “Oooooh.”
I ran out, frightened by her pain, yet excited somehow. She
was so beautiful and so alone. I wanted in my little girl’s way to hold
her, hold her tight and in my woman’s way never to feel her pain, ever,
whatever it was.
“Go away, go away,” she said, her trembling mouth rimmed9
with pain, “go away!”
She didn’t want to eat, told me to go away. How many people
yelled to me to go away that summer, have yelled since then, countless people, of all ages, sick people, really sick people, dying people,
people who were well and still rudely tied10 into their needs for privacy
and space, affronted by these constant impositions from, of all people,
the menu girl!
“Move over and move out, would you? Go away! Leave me
alone!”
And yet, of everyone who told me to go away, it was this
woman in her solitary anguish who touched me the most deeply. How
could I, age seventeen, not knowing love, how could I presume to
reach out to this young woman in her sorrow, touch her and say, “I
know, I understand.”
Instead, I shrank back11 into myself and trembled behind the
1
prop up to support by putting sth under it
quilt a cover for a bed which is filled with feathers or other warm material
3 flushed red, blushing
4 quiver to tremble slightly or vibrate
5 full-bodied having an well-rounded figure
6 unadorned without any decoration
7 grit your teeth to bite your teeth tightly together
8 self-loathing the state of hating oneself
9 rim to form an edge around sth
10 tie to connect or link closely
11 shrink back to move back or away from sth because you are frightened or shocked
2
door. I never went back into her room. How could I? It was too terrible
a vision, for in her I saw myself, all life, all suffering. What I saw both
chilled and burned me. I stood long in that darkened doorway,
confused in the presence of human pain. I wanted to reach out1 ... I
wanted to ... I wanted to ... But how?
As long as I live I will carry Elizabeth Rainey’s image with me:
in a creme-colored gown she is propped up, her hair fanning pillows in
a room full of deep sweet acrid2 and overspent3 flowers. Oh, I may
have been that summer girl, but yes, I knew, I understood. I would
have danced for her, Eutilia, had I but dared.
DOLORES CASAUS
Dolores of the frog entrails episode, who’d played my sister Ismene4
in the world literature class play, was now a nurse’s aide on the
surgical floor, changing sheets, giving enemas5 and taking rectal
temperatures.
It was she who taught me how to take blood pressure, wrapping the cuff6 around the arm, counting the seconds and then multiplying beats. As a friend, she was rude, impudent, delightful; as an
aide, most dedicated. One day for an experiment, with me as a guinea
pig7, she took the blood pressure of my right leg. That day I hobbled8
around the hospital, the leg cramped and weak. In high school Dolores
had been my double, my confidante and the best Ouija board9 partner
I ever had. When we set our fingers to the board, the dial raced and
spun10, flinging out11 letters – notes from the long dead, the crying out.
Together we contacted la Llorona12 and would have unraveled that
mystery13 if Sister Esperidiana hadn’t caught us in the religion room
during lunchtime communing with that distressed spirit who had so
much to tell!
1
reach out to show sby that you are interested in them and want to help them
acrid sharp, bitter to the smell or taste
3 overspent exhausted, past their best
4 Ismene the name of a woman of Greek mythology; she appears in the Greek
tragedy Antigone, by Sophocles; in the school play Dolores had played the weaker
sister, Ismene, to Rocío’s strong-willed Antigone [N]
5 enema a liquid that is put into a person’s rectum by means of a syringe, in order to
clean out the bowels, e.g. before an operation
6 cuff an inflatable band, usu. wrapped around the upper arm, that is used along with
a sphygmomanometer in measuring arterial blood pressure
7 guinea pig a person or animal used in a scientific test or medical experiment, e.g. to
discover the effect of a drug on humans
8 hobble to walk with difficulty, esp. because your feet or legs hurt
9 Ouija board also known as spirit board or talking board; it is any flat board with
letters, numbers, and other symbols, used to supposedly communicate with spirits. It
uses pieces of wood to indicate the message by spelling it out on the board. The
fingers of the participants are placed on the pieces of wood that then move about
the board to spell out messages. [W]
10 spin to turn round and round quickly
11 fling out to throw out
12 la Llorana in folklore, the Weeper-Ghost of a dead woman [N]
13 unravel a mystery to solve a mystery
2
Dolores was engaged. She had a hope chest1. She wasn’t going
to college2 because she had to work, and her two sisters-in-law, the
Nurses González and González – Esperanza, male, and Bertha, female,
were her supervisors.
As a favor to Dolores, González the Elder, Esperanza would
often give her a left-over tray of “regular” food, the patient having
checked out3 or on to other resting grounds4. Usually I’d have gone
home after the ritualistic glass of tea but one day, out of boredom
perhaps, most likely out of curiosity, I hung around5 the surgical floor
talking to Dolores, my only friend in all the hospital. I clung to6 her
sense of wonder, her sense of the ludicrous7, to her humor in the face
of order, for even in that environment of restriction, I felt her still
probing8 the whys and wherefores of science, looking for vestiges of
irregularity with immense childlike curiosity.
The day of the left-over meal found Dolores and me in the
9
laundry room, sandwiched between bins of feces and urine stained
sheets to be laundered. There were also dripping urinals waiting to be
washed. Hunched over a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and
gravy, lima beans10 and vanilla ice cream, we devoured crusty morsels
of Mr. Smith’s fried chicken breasts. The food was good. We fought
over the ice cream. I resolved to try a few more meals before the
summer ended, perhaps in a more pleasant atmosphere.
That day, I lingered11 at the hospital longer than usual. I helped
Dolores with Francisca Pacheco, turning the old woman on her side as
we fitted12 the sheet on the mattress. “Cuidado, no me toquen13,” she
cried. When Dolores took her temperature rectally, I left the room, but
returned just as quickly, ashamed of my timidity. I was always the
passing menu girl, too afraid to linger, too unwilling to see, too busy
with summer illusions. Every day I raced to finish the daily menus,
punching in my time card, greeting the beginning of what I considered
to be my real day outside those long and smelly corridors where food
and illness intermingled, leaving a sweet thick air of exasperation in
my lungs. The “ooooh” of Elizabeth Rainey’s anxious flesh.
The “ay ay ay” of Great Aunt Eutilia’s phantom cries awaited14
me in my father’s room. On the wall the portrait of his hero Napoleon
1
hope chest items for the house collected by a woman, esp. in the past, in
preparation for her marriage and often kept in a large chest, a large strong box
2 college (US) university
3 check out to leave the hospital
4 resting ground reference to the grave, where the dead rest forever
5 hang around to wait or stay near a place, not doing very much
6 cling to to hold on tightly to sth or by, to be unwilling to abandon them
7 ludicrous absurd, nonsensical, ridiculous
8 probe to explore, investigate
9 laundry clothes, sheets, etc. that need washing or that have been washed recently
10 lima bean a type of round, pale green bean (Fr. haricot de Lima)
11 linger to stay for a long time
12 fit to put or fix sth somewhere
13 cuidado, no me toquen (Sp.) careful, don’t touch me
14 await to wait for sby or sth
hung, shielded1 by white sheets. The sun was too bright that summer
for delicate fading eyes, the heat too oppressive. The blue fan raced to
bring freshness to that acrid tomb full of ghosts.
I walked home slowly, not stopping at the quiet place. Compadre Regino Suárez was on the roof. The cooler leaked2. Impatient
with Regino and his hearty wave, his habit of never doing any job
thoroughly3, I remembered that I’d forgotten my daily iced tea. The
sun was hot. All I wanted was to rest in the cool darkness of my purple
room.
The inside of the house smelled of burnt food and lemons. My
mother had left something on the stove4 again. To counteract the
burnt smell she’d placed lemons all over the house. Lemons filled
ashtrays5 and bowls, they lay solidly on tables and rested in hot
corners. I looked in the direction of Eutilia’s room. Quiet. She was
sleeping. She’d been dead five years but, still, the room was hers. She
was sleeping peacefully. I smelled the cleansing bitterness of lemons.
MRS. DANIELS
When I entered rooms and saw sick, dying women in their forties, I
always remembered room 210, Mrs. Daniels, the mother of my
cousin’s future wife.
Mrs. Daniels usually lay in bed, whimpering like a little dog,
moaning to her husband, who always stood nearby, holding her hand,
saying softly, “Now, Martha, Martha. The little girl only wants to get
your order.”
“Send her away, goddammit!”
On those days that Mr. Daniels was absent, Mrs. Daniels
6
whined for me to go away. “Leave me alone, can’t you see I’m dying?”
she said and looked toward the wall. She looked so pale, sick, near
death to me, but somehow I knew, not really having imagined death
without the dying, not having felt the outrage and loathing, I knew and
saw her outbursts7 for what they really were: deep hurts, deep
distresses. I saw her need to release them, to fling8 them at others,
dribbling9 pain/anguish/abuse, trickling10 away those vast torrential
feelings of sorrow and hate and fear, letting them fall wherever they
would, on whomever they might. I was her white wall. I was her
1
shield to put a shield around sth in order to protect the person using it
leak to allow liquid or gas to escape through a small hole or crack
3 thoroughly completely and with great attention to detail
4 stove a cooker
5 ashtray a small dish or container, sometimes decorative, in which people can leave
cigarette ash and cigarette ends
6 whine to complain in a childish way, to moan
7 outburst a sudden forceful expression of emotion, esp. anger
8 fling to throw sby or sth somewhere with force, esp. because you are angry
9 dribble to cause a liquid (e.g. saliva) to flow in a thin stream
10 trickle to make sth go, somewhere slowly or gradually
2
whipping girl1 upon whom she spilled her darkened ashes. She cried
out obscenely to me, sending me reeling2 from her room, that room of
loathing3 and dread. That room anxious with worms.
Who of us has not heard the angry choked4 words of crying
people, listened, not wanting to hear, then shut our ears, said enough,
I don’t want to. Who has not seen the fearful tear-streamed faces,
known the blank eyes and felt the holding back, and, like smiling
thoughtless children, said: “I was in the next room, I couldn’t help
hearing, I heard, I saw, you didn’t know, did you? I know.”
We rolled up5 the pain, assigned it a shelf6, placed it in the
hardened place, along with a certain self-congratulatory sense of
wonder at the world’s unfortunates like Mrs. Daniels. We were
embarrassed to be alive.
JUAN MARIA / THE NOSE
“Cómo se dice7 when was the last time you had a bowel movement8?”
Nurse Luciano asked. She was from Yonkers9, a bright newlywed.
Erminia, the ward10 secretary, a tall thin horsey11 woman with a
postured12 Juárez13 hairdo14 of exaggerated sausage ringlets15, replied
through chapped16 lips, “Oh, who cares, he’s sleeping.”
“He’s from México, huh?” Luciano said with interest.
“An illegal alien17,” Rosario retorted. She was Erminia’s sister,
the superintendent’s18 secretary, with the look of a badly scarred bulldog. She’d stopped by to invite Erminia to join her for lunch.
“So where’d it happen?” Luciano asked.
“At the Guadalajara Bar on Main Street,” Erminia answered,
moistening19 her purple lips nervously. It was a habit of hers.
“Hey, I remember when we used to walk home from school.
1
whipping girl a scapegoat, a girl who is blamed or punished for things she is not
responsible for
2 reel to move in a very unsteady way, e.g. because you have been hit or feel very
shocked or upset about sth
3 loathing disgust
4 choked unable to speak because you are upset or angry
5 roll up to close sth, to make it smaller
6 shelf a flat board, made of wood, metal, glass, etc., fixed to the wall or forming part
of a cupboard, for things to be placed on
7 cómo se dice (Sp.) how do you say
8 have a bowel movement to empty one’s bowels
9 Yonkers the fourth largest city in the U.S. State of New York
10 ward a separate room or area in a hospital for people with the same type of
medical condition
11 horsey looking like a horse, usu. in an unattractive way
12 postured artificial
13 Juárez reference to Benito Juárez (1806-1872), Mexico’s first president, whose
image is on the Mexican 20 pesos banknote; he had a characteristic hairstyle
14 hairdo a hairstyle, the way in which your hair has been cut and arranged
15 ringlet a long curl of hair hanging down from sby’s head
16 chapped rough, dry and sore, esp. because of wind or cold weather
17 alien a person who is not a citizen of the country in which they live or work
18 superintendent a person who has a lot of authority and manages and controls an
activity, a place, a group of workers
19 moisten to become or make sth slightly wet
You remember, Rocío?” Dolores asked, “We’d try to throw each other
through the swinging doors. It was real noisy in there.”
“Father O’Kelley said drink was the defilement1 of men, the
undoing of staunch2, god-fearing3 women,” I said.
“Our father has one now and then,” Rosario replied, “that
doesn’t mean anything. It’s because he was one of those aliens.”
“Those kind of problems are bad around here I heard,”
Luciano said, “people sneaking4 across the border and all.”
“Hell, you don’t know the half of it,” Nurse González said as
she came up to the desk where we all stood facing the hallway. “It’s
an epidemic.”
“I don’t know, my mother always had maids, and they were
all real nice except the one who stole her wedding rings. We had to
track5 her all the way to Piedras Negras6 and even then she wouln’t
give them up,” Erminia interjected.
“Still, it doesn’t seem human the way they’re treated at
times.”
“Some of them, they ain’t human.”
“Still, he was drunk, he wasn’t full aware.”
“Full aware, my ass,” retorted Esperanza angrily, “he had
enough money to buy booze7. If that’s not aware, I don’t know what
aware is. Ain’t my goddam fault the bastard got into a fight and someone bit his nose off. Ain’t my fault he’s here and we gotta take care of
him. Christ! If that isn’t aware, I don’t know what aware is!”
Esperanza González, head surgical floor nurse, the short but
highly respected Esperanza of no esperanzas8, the Esperanza of the
short-bobbed9 hair, the husky10 deferential11 voice, the commands,
the no-nonsense orders and briskness12, Esperanza the future sisterin-law of Dolores, my only friend, Esperanza the dyke13, who was later
killed in a car accident on the way to somewhere, said: “Now get back
to work all of you, we’re just here to clean up the mess.”
Later when Esperanza was killed my aunt said, “How nice. In
the paper they called her lover her sister. How nice!”
“Hey, Erminia, lunch?” asked Rosario, almost sheepishly14.
1
defilement debasement, corruption, ruining
staunch very loyal in your support for sby or your belief in sth
3 god-fearing to be religious and to behave according to the moral rules of religion
4 sneak to go somewhere very quietly, trying to avoid being seen or heard
5 track to find sby by following the marks, signs, information, etc., that they have left
behind them
6 Piedras Negras “black rocks” (Spanish), a reference to the coal deposits that exist in
the area. Piedras Negras is a city and the seat of the surrounding municipality of the
same name in the Mexican state of Coahuila. [W]
7 booze alcoholic drink
8 Esperanza of no esperanzas (Sp.) hope of no hopes
9 bobbed (of hair) cut so that it hangs loosely to the level of the chin all around the
back and sides
10 husky deep, quiet and rough, sometimes in an attractive way
11 deferential respectful and polite
12 brisk practical and confident; showing a desire to get things done quickly
13 dyke a lesbian
14 sheepish embarrassed because you know that you have done sth wrong or silly
2
“You hungry?”
“Coming, Rosario,” yelled Erminia from the back office where
she was getting her purse. “Coming!”
“God, I’m starving,” Rosario said, “can you hear my stomach?”
“Go check Mr. Carter’s cath, Dolores, will you?” said Esperanza
in a softer tone.
“Well, I don’t know, I just don’t know,” Luciano pondered1. “It
doesn’t seem human, does it? I mean how in the world could anyone
in their right mind bite off another person’s nose? How? You know it,
González, you’re a tough rooster2. If I didn’t know you so well already,
you’d scare the hell out of me3. How long you been a nurse?”
“Too long, Luciano. Look, I ain’t a new bride, that’s liable to
make a person soft. Me, I just clean up the mess.”
“Luciano, what you know about people could be put on the
head of a pin. You just leave these alien problems to those of us who
were brought up around here and know what’s going on. Me, I don’t
feel one bit sorry for that bastard,” Esperanza said firmly. “Christ,
Luciano, what do you expect, he don’t speak no Engleesh!”
“His name is Juan María Mejía,” I ventured.
Luciano laughed. Esperanza laughed. Dolores went off to Mrs.
Carter’s room, and Rosario chatted noisily with Erminia as they walked
toward the cafeteria.
“Hey, Rosario,” Luciano called out, “what happened to the
rings?”
It was enchilada day. Trini was very busy.
Juan María the Nose was sleeping in the hallway; all the other
beds were filled. His hospital gown was awry4, the grey sheet folded
through sleep-deadened limbs. His hands were tightly clenched5. The
hospital screen barely concealed his twisted private sleep of legs
akimbo6, moist armpits7 and groin8. It was a sleep of sleeping off, of
hard drunken wanderings, with dreams of a bar, dreams of a fight. He
slept the way little boys sleep, carelessly half exposed. I stared at him.
Esperanza complained and muttered under her breath, railing
at the Anglo sons of bitches and at all the lousy9 wetbacks10, at
everyone, male and female, goddamn them and their messes.
Esperanza was dark and squat11, pura india12, tortured by her very face.
1
ponder to think about sth carefully for a period of time
rooster a person regarded as cocky or pugnacious (having a strong desire to argue
or fight with other people)
3 scare the hell out of to scare sby extremely
4 awry untidy, not in the right position
5 clench one’s hands to press or squeeze the hands together tightly, usu. showing
that you are angry, determined or upset
6 with legs akimbo with legs wide open, spread
7 armpit the hollow place under your arm where your arm joins your body
8 groin the place where your legs meet the front of your body
9 lousy very bad, disgusting (lit. infested with lice = Fr. poux)
10 wetback an offensive word for a Mexican person, esp. one who enters the US
illegally
11 squat short and wide or fat, in a way that is not attractive
12 pura India pure Indian [N]
2
Briskly, she ordered Dolores and now me about. I had graduated overnight, as if in a hazy1 dream, to assistant, but unofficial, ward secretary.
I stared across the hallway to Juan María the Nose. He faced
the wall, a dangling2 I.V. at the foot of the bed. Esperanza González,
R.N.3, looked at me.
“Well, and who are you?”
“I’m the menu, I mean, I was the menu ... ” I stammered. “I’m
helping Erminia.”
“So get me some cigarettes. Camels. I’ll pay you tomorrow
when I get paid.”
Yes, it was really González, male, who ran the hospital.
Arlene returned from the Luray Caverns with a stalactite
charm bracelet4 for me. She announced to Mr. Smith and me that
she’d gotten a job with an insurance company.
“I’ll miss you, Rocío.”
“Me, too, Arlene.” God knows it was the truth. I’d come to
depend on her, our talks over tea. No one ever complimented me like
she did.
“You never get angry, do you?” she said admiringly.
“Rarely,” I said. But inside, I was always angry.
“What do you want to do?”
“Want to do?”
“Yeah.”
I want to be someone else, somewhere else, someone important and responsible and sexy. I want to be sexy.
“I don’t know. I’m going to major in drama.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “Everyone likes you. It’s in your
nature. You’re the Florence Nightingale of Altavista Memorial, that’s
it!”
“Oh God, Arlene, I don’t want to be a nurse, ever! I can’t take
the smells. No one in our family can stand smells.”
“You look like that painting. I always did think it looked like you
... ”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, you’re making me sick, Arlene.”
“Everyone likes you.”
“Well ... ”
“So keep in touch. I’ll see you at the University.”
“Home Ec?”
1
hazy not clear because of a lack of memory, understanding or detail; vague
dangle to hang or swing freely
3 R.N. registered nurse
4 charm bracelet a chain which is worn round the wrist and to which small, esp. gold
or silver, objects are fixed
2
“Biology.”
We hugged.
The weeks progressed. My hours at the hospital grew. I was
allowed to check in patients, to take their blood pressures and
temperatures. I flipped through the patients’ charts1, memorizing
names, room numbers, types of diet. I fingered the doctors’ reports
with reverence. Perhaps someday I would begin to write in them as
Erminia did: “2:15 p.m., Mrs. Daniels, pulse normal, temp normal, Dr.
Blasse checked patient, treatment on schedule, medication given to
quiet patient.”
One day I received a call at the ward desk. It was Mr. Smith.
“Ms. Esquibel? Rocío? This is Mr. Smith, you know, down in
the cafeteria.”
“Yes, Mr. Smith! How are you? Is there anything I can do? Are
you getting the menus okay? I’m leaving them on top of your desk.”
“I’ve been talking to Nurse González, surgical; she says they
need you there full time to fill in2 and could I do without you?”
“Oh, I can do both jobs; it doesn’t take that long, Mr. Smith.”
“No, we’re going by a new system. Rather, it’s the old system.
The aides will take the menu orders like they used to before Arlene
came. So, you come down and see me, Rocío, have a glass of iced tea.
I never see you any more since you moved up in the world. Yeah, I
guess you’re the last of the menu girls.”
The summer passed. June, July, August, my birth month. There
were serious days, hurried admissions, feverish errands3, quick notes
jotted4 in the doctor’s charts. I began to work Saturdays. In my
eagerness5 to “advance,” I unwittingly had created more work for
myself, work I really wasn’t skilled to do.
My heart reached out to every person, dragged6 itself through
the hallways with the patients, cried when they did, laughed when
they did. I had no business in the job. I was too emotional.
Now when I walked into a room I knew the patient’s history,
the cause of illness. I began to study individual cases with great
attention, turning to a copy of The Family Physician7, which had its
place among my father’s old books in his abandoned study.
Gone were the idle hours of sitting in the cafeteria, leisurely
drinking iced tea, gone were the removed reflections of the outsider.
My walks home were measured, pensive. I hid in my room
those long hot nights, nights full of wrestling, injured dreams. Nothing
seemed enough.
1
chart a page or sheet of information in the form of diagrams, lists of figures, etc.
fill in to act as a substitute
3 errand a job that you do for sby that involves going somewhere to take a message,
to buy sth or deliver goods
4 jot to write sth quickly
5 eager full of interest or desire
6 drag to move yourself slowly and with effort
7 physician a doctor, esp. one who is a specialist in general medicine
2
Before I knew it, it was the end of August, close to that autumnal time of setting out1. My new life was about to begin. I had made
that awesome2 leap3 into myself that steamy summer of illness and
dread – confronting at every turn, the flesh, its lingering cries.
“Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay, Canta y no llores! Porque cantando se alegran,
Cielito Lindo, los corazones4 ...” The little thin voice of an old woman
sang from one of the back rooms. She pumped the gold pedals5 with
fast furious and fervent feet, she smiled to the wall, its faces, she
danced on the ceiling.
Let me jump.
“Goodbye, Dolores, it was fun.”
“I’ll miss you, Rocío! But you know, gotta save some money.
I’ll get back to school someday, maybe.”
“What’s wrong, Erminia? You mad?” I asked.
“I thought you were gonna stay and help me out here on the
floor.”
“Goddamn right!” complained Esperanza. “Someone told me
this was your last day, so why didn’t you tell me? Why’d I train you for,
so you could leave us? To go to school? What for? So you can get those
damned food stamps6? It’s a disgrace all those wetbacks and healthy
college students getting our hard earned tax money. Makes me sick.
Christ!” Esperanza shook her head with disgust.
“Hey, Erminia, you tell Rosario goodbye for me and Mrs.
Luciano, too,” I said sadly.
“Yeah, okay. They’ll be here tomorrow,” she answered tonelessly. I wanted to believe she was sad.
“I gotta say goodbye to Mr. Smith,” I said, as I moved away.
“Make him come up and get some sun,” González snickered7.
“Hell no, better not, he might get sunstroke8 and who’d fix my fried
chicken?”
I climbed down the steps to the basement, past the cafeteria,
past my special table, and into Mr. Smith’s office, where he sat, adding
numbers.
“Miss Esquibel, Rocío!”
“This is my last day, Mr. Smith. I wanted to come down and
thank you.
I’m sorry about ... ”
“Oh no, it worked out all right. It’s nothing.”
1
set out to leave a place and begin a journey
awesome very impressive or very difficult and perhaps rather frightening
3 leap a large and important change, increase, or advance; a vigorous jump
4 canta y no llores! Porque cantando se alegran, Cielito Lindo, los corazones (Sp.)
Sing and don’t cry! Because by singing, Beautiful Little Sky, hearts rejoice
5 gold pedals the pedals of a piano, which refers to Eutilia playing it
6 food stamp a piece of paper that is given by the government to poor people, for
them to buy food with
7 snicker to snigger, i.e. to laugh at sby or sth childishly and often unkindly
8 sunstroke an illness with fever, weakness, headache … caused by spending too
much time in strong heat and sunlight
2
Did I see, from the corner of my eye, a set of Friday’s menus
he himself was tabulating – salisbury steak, macaroni and cheese …
“We’ll miss you, Rocío. You were an excellent menu girl.”
“It’s been a wonderful summer.”
“Do you want some tea?”
“No, I really don’t have the time.”
“I’ll get ... ”
“No, thank you, Mr. Smith, I really have to go, but thanks. It’s
really good tea.”
I extended my hand, and for the first time, we touched. Mr.
Smith’s eyes seemed fogged, distracted. He stood up and hobbled
closer to my side. I took his grave cold hand, shook it softly, and turned
to the moist walls. When I closed the door, I saw him in front of me,
framed in paper, the darkness of that quiet room. Bless this mess.
Eutilia’s voice echoed in the small room. Goodbye. Goodbye.
And let me jump.
I turned away from the faces, the voices, now gone: Father
O’Kelley, Elizabeth Rainey, Mrs. Luciano, Arlene Rutschman, Mrs.
Daniels, Juan María the Nose, Mr. Samaniego and Donelda, his wife,
their grandchildren, Mr. Carter, Earl Ellis, Dolores Casaus, Erminia and
her sister, the bulldog. Esperanza González, Francisca Pacheco,
Elweena Twinbaum, the silver-haired volunteer whose name I’d
learned the week before I left Altavista Memorial. I’d made a list on a
menu of all the people I’d worked with. To remember. It seemed right.
From the distance I heard Marion Smith’s high voice: “Now
you come back and see us!”
Above the stairs the painting of Florence Nightingale stared
solidly into weary1 soldiers’ eyes. Her look encompassed all the great
unspeakable sufferings of every war. I thought of Arlene typing
insurance premiums.
Farther away, from behind and around my head, I heard the
irregular but joyful strains2 of “Cielito Lindo” played on a phantom
piano by a disembodied but now peaceful voice that sang with great
quivering emotion: De la sierra morena. Cielito Lindo ... viene bajando
... 3
Regino fixed the cooler. I started school. Later that year I was
in a car accident. I crashed into a brick wall at the cemetery. I walked
to Dolores’ house, holding my bleeding face in my hands. Dolores and
her father argued all the way to the hospital. I sat quietly in the back
seat. It was a lovely morning. So clear. When I woke up I was on the
surgical floor. Everyone knew me. I had so many flowers in the room I
could hardly breathe. My older sister, Ronelia, thought I’d lost part of
my nose in the accident and she returned to the cemetery to look for
1
weary very tired
strain the sound of music being played or sung
3 De la sierra morena. Cielito Lindo ... viene bajando (Sp.) “From the dark
mountains. Beautiful Little Sky … there descends...”
2
it. It wasn’t there.
Mr. Smith came to see me once. I started to cry.
“Oh no, no, no, now don’t you do that, Rocío. You want some
tea?”
No one took my menu order. I guess that system had finally
died out. I ate the food, whatever it was, walked the hallways in my
grey hospital gown slit in the back, railed1 at the well-being of others,
cursed2 myself for being so stupid. I only wanted to be taken home,
down the street, past the quiet-talking place, a block away, near the
Dairy Queen, to the darkness of my purple room.
It was time.
PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT: Altavista Memorial Hospital
SUPERVISORS: Mr. Marion Smith, Dietician, and Miss Esperanza
González, R.N., Surgical Floor.
DATES: June 1966 to August 1966
IN A FEW SENTENCES GIVE A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF YOUR JOB: As
Ward Secretary, I was responsible for ... let me think ...
1
2
rail at sth to complain about sth in a very angry way, to protest
curse oneself to say rude things to oneself
Christie, Agatha “The Stymphalian Birds” (1939)
I
Harold Waring noticed Them first walking up the path from the lake1.
He was sitting outside the hotel on the terrace. The day was fine, the
lake was blue, and the sun shone. Harold was smoking a pipe and
feeling that the world was a pretty good place.
His political career was shaping well2. An under-secretaryship3
at the age of thirty was something to be justly proud of. It had been
reported that the Prime Minister had said to someone that “young
Waring would go far”. Harold was, not unnaturally, elated4. Life
presented itself to him in rosy colours. He was young, sufficiently
good-looking, in first-class condition, and quite unencumbered5 with
romantic ties.
He had decided to take a holiday in Herzoslovakia so as to get
right off the beaten track6 and have a real rest from everyone and
everything. The hotel at Lake Stempka, though small, was comfortable
and not overcrowded. The few people there were mostly foreigners.
So far the only other English people were an elderly woman, Mrs Rice,
and her married daughter, Mrs Clayton. Harold liked them both. Elsie
Clayton was pretty in a rather old-fashioned style. She made up very
little, if at all, and was gentle and rather shy. Mrs Rice was what is
called a woman of character. She was tall, with a deep voice and a
masterful7 manner, but she had a sense of humour and was good
company. Her life was clearly bound up in8 that of her daughter.
Harold had spent some pleasant hours in the company of
mother and daughter, but they did not attempt to monopolise him and
relations remained friendly and unexacting9 between them.
The other people in the hotel had not aroused Harold’s
notice10. Usually they were hikers11, or members of a motor-coach
Text based on: Hopkins, Andy, and Jocelyn Potter, eds. 1996. Best Detective Stories of
Agatha Christie. Harlow: Longman.
Many thanks are due to Marie-Eve Vandoorne, whose end-of-year paper (UNamur,
Langues et littératures germaniques, ba3, 2008-2009) provided the basis for the
present edition.
1
lake lake Stempka in Herzoslovakia (both are imaginary places)
shaping well becoming concrete and promising
3 under-secretaryship an important political position in charge of a government
department
4 elated extremely happy
5 unencumbered free from, not burdened or impeded by
6 off the beaten track far away from the places that people usually visit
7 masterful domineering, imperious
8 bound up closely involved
9 unexacting demanding little effort
10 arouse sby’s notice to attract sby’s attention
11 hiker sby on a walking holiday
2
Christie “The Stymphalian Birds” (2)
tour1. They stayed a night or two and then went on. He had hardly
noticed anyone else – until this afternoon.
They came up the path from the lake very slowly and it just
happened that at the moment when Harold’s attention was attracted
to them, a cloud came over the sun. He shivered a little.
Then he stared. Surely there was something odd about these
two women? They had long, curved noses, like birds, and their faces,
which were curiously alike, were quite immobile. Over their shoulders
they wore loose cloaks2 that flapped3 in the wind like the wings of two
big birds.
Harold thought to himself.
“They are like birds.” He added almost without volition, “Birds
of ill omen4.”
The women came straight up on the terrace and passed close
by him. They were not young – perhaps nearer fifty than forty, and the
resemblance between them was so close that they were obviously
sisters. Their expression was forbidding5. As they passed Harold the
eyes of both of them rested on him for a minute. It was a curious,
appraising6 glance – almost inhuman.
Harold’s impression of evil grew stronger. He noticed the hand
of one of the two sisters, a long claw-like hand ...
Although the sun had come out, he shivered once again. He
thought:
“Horrible creatures. Like birds of prey...”
He was distracted from these imaginings by the emergence of
Mrs Rice from the hotel. He jumped up and drew forward a chair. With
a word of thanks she sat down and, as usual, began to knit7 vigorously.
Harold asked:
“Did you see those two women who just went into the hotel?”
“With cloaks on? Yes, I passed them.”
“Extraordinary creatures, didn’t you think?”
“Well – yes, perhaps they are rather odd. They only arrived
yesterday, I think. Very alike – they must be twins.”
Harold said:
“I may be fanciful, but I distinctly felt there was something evil
about them.”
“How curious. I must look at them more closely and see if I
agree with you.”
She added: “We’ll find out from the concierge who they are.
Not English, I imagine?”
“Oh no.”
1
motor-coach tour a trip organized for a group of people getting about by coach (Fr.
autocar)
2 cloak a loose coat without the pieces which cover your arms
3 flap to move up and down
4 of ill omen predicting future trouble
5 forbidding unfriendly, sinister, threatening
6 appraising judging the value of sth, critical
7 knit Fr. tricoter
Mrs Rice glanced at her watch. She said:
“Teatime. I wonder if you’d mind going in and ringing the bell,
Mr Waring?”
“Certainly, Mrs Rice.”
He did so and then as he returned to his seat he asked:
“Where’s your daughter this afternoon?”
“Elsie? We went for a walk together. Part of the way round the
lake and then back through the pinewoods1. It really was lovely.”
A waiter came out and received orders for tea. Mrs Rice went
on, her needles2 flying vigorously:
“Elsie had a letter from her husband. She mayn’t come down
to tea.”
“Her husband?” Harold was surprised. “Do you know, I always
thought she was a widow.”
Mrs Rice shot him a sharp glance. She said dryly:
“Oh no, Elsie isn’t a widow.” She added with emphasis: “Unfortunately!”
Harold was startled3.
Mrs Rice, nodding her head grimly4, said:
“Drink is responsible for a lot of unhappiness, Mr Waring.”
“Does he drink?”
“Yes. And a good many other things as well. He’s insanely
jealous and has a singularly violent temper.” She sighed. “It’s a difficult
world, Mr Waring. I’m devoted to Elsie, she’s my only child – and to
see her unhappy isn’t an easy thing to bear.”
Harold said with real emotion:
“She’s such a gentle creature.”
“A little too gentle, perhaps.”
“You mean – ”
Mrs Rice said slowly:
“A happy creature is more arrogant. Elsie’s gentleness comes,
I think, from a sense of defeat. Life has been too much for her.”
Harold said with some slight hesitation:
“How – did she come to marry this husband of hers?”
Rice answered:
“Philip Clayton was a very attractive person. He had – still has
– great charm, he had a certain amount of money – and there was no
one to advise us of his real character. I had been a widow for many
years. Two women, living alone, are not the best judges of a man’s
character.”
Harold said thoughtfully:
“No, that’s true.”
1
pinewood Fr. forêt de pins
needle Fr. aiguille
3 startled suddenly surprised or slightly shocked
4 grimly seriously and worryingly
2
He felt a wave of indignation and pity sweep over1 him. Elsie
Clayton could not be more than twenty-five at the most. He recalled
the clear friendliness of her blue eyes, the soft droop2 of her mouth.
He realised, suddenly, that his interest in her went a little beyond
friendship.
And she was tied to a brute ...
II
That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie
Clayton was wearing a soft dull3 pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed,
were red. She had been crying.
Mrs Rice said briskly4:
“I’ve found out who your two harpies5 are, Mr Waring. Polish
ladies – of very good family, so the concierge says.”
Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were
sitting.
Elsie said with interest:
“Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed6 hair?
They look rather horrible somehow – I don’t know why.”
Harold said triumphantly:
“That’s just what I thought.”
Mrs Rice said with a laugh:
“I think you are both being absurd. You can’t possibly tell what
people are like just by looking at them.”
Elsie laughed.
She said:
“I suppose one can’t. All the same I think they’re vultures7!”
“Picking out dead men’s eyes!” said Harold.
“Oh, don’t,” cried Elsie.
Harold said quickly:
“Sorry.”
Mrs Rice said with a smile:
“Anyway they’re not likely to cross our path8.”
Elsie said:
“We haven’t got any guilty secrets!”
“Perhaps Mr Waring has,” said Mrs Rice with a twinkle9.
1
sweep over to overwhelm, overpower, overcome
droop the way in which sth (here Elsie’s mouth) hangs down
3 dull lifeless, unexciting
4 briskly quickly and full of energy
5 harpy a mythical creature, half woman, half bird, very greedy and cruel
6 henna-dyed coloured with henna (a natural substance used to change your hair
colour to a reddish brown)
7 vulture a large bird, usually without feathers on its head or neck, that eats the flesh
of animals that are already dead; figuratively a person who hopes to gain from the
troubles or sufferings of other people (here both definitions make sense)
8 cross sby’s path to meet sby by chance
9 twinkle an expression in your eyes that shows you are amused or happy
2
Harold laughed, throwing his head back.
He said:
“Not a secret in the world. My life’s an open book.”
And it flashed across his mind:
“What fools people are who leave the straight path1. A clear
conscience – that’s all one needs in life. With that you can face the
world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!”
He felt suddenly very much alive – very strong – very much
master of his fate!
III
Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His
French was halting2 and decidedly British in intonation. Of German and
Italian he knew nothing.
Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In
most hotels on the Continent, he had always found, everyone spoke
English, so why worry?
But in this out-of-the-way spot3, where the native language
was a form of Slovak and even the concierge only spoke German it was
sometimes galling4 to Harold when one of his two women friends
acted as interpreter for him. Mrs Rice, who was fond of languages,
could even speak a little Slovak.
Harold determined that he would set about5 learning German.
He decided to buy some textbooks and spend a couple of hours each
morning in mastering the language.
The morning was fine and, after writing some letters, Harold
looked at his watch and saw there was still time for an hour’s stroll6
before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then turned aside
into the pinewoods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes
when he heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a
woman was sobbing her heart out7.
Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the
sound. The woman was Elsie Clayton and she was sitting on a fallen
tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering8
with the violence of her grief9.
Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her. He said
gently:
“Mrs Clayton – Elsie?”
1
leave the straight path to start commiting sins or crimes
halting slow and with pauses, not fluent at all
3 out-of-the-way spot a place far removed from everything
4 galling unfair, making you feel upset and angry
5 set about sth to start doing sth
6 stroll a slow, relaxed walk
7 sob out one’s heart Fr. pleurer toutes les larmes de son corps
8 quiver to shake, tremble
9 grief a feeling of great sadness
2
She started1 violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down
beside her.
He said with real sympathy:
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
She shook her head.
“No – no – you’re very kind. But there’s nothing that anyone
can do for me.”
Harold said rather diffidently2:
“Is it to do with – your husband?”
She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her
powder compact3, struggling to regain command of herself. She said
in a quavering4 voice:
“I didn’t want Mother to worry. She’s so upset when she sees
me unhappy. So I came out here to have a good cry. It’s silly, I know.
Crying doesn’t help. But – sometimes – one just feels that life is quite
unbearable.”
Harold said:
“I’m terribly sorry.”
She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly:
“It’s my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free
will. It – it’s turned out badly, I’ve only myself to blame.”
Harold said:
“It’s very plucky5 of you to put it like that.”
Elsie shook her head.
“No, I’m not plucky. I’m not brave at all. I’m an awful coward.
That’s partly the trouble with Philip. I’m terrified of him – absolutely
terrified – when he gets in one of his rages.”
Harold said with feeling:
“You ought to leave him!”
“I daren’t. He – he wouldn’t let me.”
“Nonsense! What about a divorce?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I’ve no grounds6.” She straightened her shoulders. “No, I’ve
got to carry on7. I spend a fair amount of time with Mother, you know.
Philip doesn’t mind that. Especially when we go somewhere off the
beaten track like this.” She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, “You
see, part of the trouble is that he’s insanely jealous. If – if I so much as
speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes.”
Harold’s indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband, and whilst professing8 sympathy,
had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply justified.
1
start to move suddenly because you are surprised or afraid
diffidently hesitatingly, without self-confidence
3 powder compact Fr. poudrier
4 quavering with a shaking, unsteady sound
5 plucky brave, courageous
6 ground a reason or motive
7 carry on to continue, not to give up
8 profess to claim feelings or beliefs that you do not have
2
But Elsie Clayton was not one of those women. She had never thrown
him so much as a flirtatious1 glance.
Elsie drew away2 from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up
at the sky.
“The sun’s gone in. It’s quite cold. We’d better get back to the
hotel. It must be nearly lunchtime.”
They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had
walked for perhaps a minute when they overtook3 a figure going in the
same direction. They recognised her by the flapping cloak she wore. It
was one of the Polish sisters.
They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no
response, but her eyes rested on them both for a minute and there
was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel
suddenly hot. He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie
on the tree trunk4. If so, she probably thought ...
Well, she looked as though she thought ... A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What foul5 minds some women had!
Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have
shivered – perhaps just at the moment that that woman was watching
them ...
Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.
IV
That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English
mail had arrived and he had received a number of letters, some of
which needed immediate answers.
He got into his pyjamas and a dressing gown6 and sat down at
the desk to deal with his correspondence. He had written three letters
and was just starting on the fourth when the door was suddenly flung7
open and Elsie Clayton staggered8 into the room.
Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to
behind her and was standing clutching9 at the chest of drawers10. Her
breath was coming in great gasps11, her face was the colour of chalk12.
She looked frightened to death.
1
flirtatious playful, possibly suggesting sexual invitation
draw away to move away
3 overtake to move past (another vehicle or person travelling in the same direction)
4 trunk the thick main stem of a tree, that the branches grow from
5 foul unclean, disgusting
6 dressing gown a long loose coat that you wear in your house, often over pyjamas
7 fling to throw
8 stagger to walk unsteadily, almost falling over
9 clutch to hold sth tightly
10 chest of drawers a piece of furniture with drawers for keeping clothes in
11 gasp a sudden, noisy taking-in of breath
12 chalk soft white rock often used for writing with on a blackboard
2
She gasped out1: “It’s my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I
– I think he’ll kill me. He’s mad – quite mad. I came to you. Don’t –
don’t let him find me.”
She took a step or two forward, swaying2 so much that she
almost fell. Harold put out an arm to support her.
As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the
doorway. He was of medium height with thick eyebrows and a sleek3,
dark head. In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner4. His voice rose
high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.
“So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on5 with this
fellow!”
Elsie cried:
“No, no, Philip. It’s not true. You’re wrong.”
Harold thrust6 the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton
advanced on them both. The latter cried:
“Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil,
I’ll kill you for this.”
With a swift, sideways movement he dodged7 Harold’s arm.
Elsie, with a cry, ran round the other side of Harold, who swung round
to fend the other off8.
But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He
swerved9 round again. Elsie, terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip
Clayton dashed10 after her, and Harold, with not a moment’s hesitation, followed him.
Elsie had darted11 back into her own bedroom at the end of
the corridor. Harold could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock,
but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch, Philip Clayton
wrenched12 the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold
heard Elsie’s frightened cry.
In another minute Harold burst in13 after them.
1
gasp out to utter sth struggling for breath
sway to move unsteadily from side to side
3 sleek smooth and shining
4 car spanner a metal tool with a specially shaped end for turning nuts and bolts (Fr.
clef anglaise)
5 carry on to have an affair
6 thrust to push sth or sby suddenly or violently in a particular direction
7 dodge to avoid sth by quick movement
8 fend off to defend yourself against
9 swerve to turn to one side
10 dash to run quickly
11 dart to move suddenly and quickly
12 wrench to pull or twist suddenly and violently
13 burst in to enter a room suddenly and noisily
2
Elsie was standing at bay1 against the curtains of the window.
As Harold entered Philip Clayton rushed at her brandishing2 the spanner. She gave a terrified cry, then snatching3 up a heavy paperweight4
from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.
Clayton went down like a log5. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped
petrified6 in the doorway. The girl fell on her knees beside her
husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.
Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt7 of one
of the doors being drawn back. Elsie jumped up and ran to Harold.
“Please – please – ” Her voice was low and breathless. “Go
back to your room. They’ll come – they’ll find you here.”
Harold nodded. He took in8 the situation like lightning9. For the
moment, Philip Clayton was hors de combat. But Elsie’s scream might
have been heard. If he were found in her room it could only cause
embarrassment and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own
there must be no scandal.
As noiselessly as possible, he sprinted down the passage and
back into his room. Just as he reached it, he heard the sound of an
opening door.
He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared
not go out. Sooner or later, he felt sure, Elsie would come.
There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in, but her mother, and Harold was
10
aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey
hair was dishevelled11 and there were deep black circles under her
eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her
breath coming painfully. Harold said quickly:
“You look all in12, Mrs Rice. Can I get you something?”
She shook her head.
“No. Never mind me. I’m all right, really. It’s only the shock. Mr
Waring, a terrible thing has happened.”
Harold asked:
“Is Clayton seriously injured?”
She caught her breath.
“Worse than that. He’s dead ... ”
1
at bay facing your attacker because there is no escape
brandish to wave threateningly
3 snatch to take sth with a quick, violent movement
4 paperweight a small heavy object that you put on the top of loose papers to keep
them in place
5 log a part of a tree trunk that has been cut down
6 petrified in a state of shock or fear which prevents movement
7 bolt a metal bar that you slide across a door to lock it (Fr. verrou)
8 take in to understand the significance of sth
9 like lightning very fast
10 aghast horrified
11 dishevelled very untidy, in a mess
12 all in extremely tired, exhausted
2
V
The room spun round1.
A feeling as of icy water trickling2 down his spine rendered
Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.
He repeated dully3:
“Dead?”
Mrs Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones4 of complete
exhaustion:
“The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on
the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender5. I don’t
know which it was that killed him – but he is certainly dead. I have seen
death often enough to know.”
Disaster – that was the word that rang insistently in Harold’s
brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster ...
He said vehemently:
“It was an accident ... I saw it happen.”
Mrs Rice said sharply:
“Of course it was an accident. I know that. But – but – is anyone else going to think so? I’m – frankly, I’m frightened, Harold! This
isn’t England.”
Harold said slowly:
“I can confirm Elsie’s story.”
Mrs Rice said:
“Yes, and she can confirm yours. That – that is just it!”
Harold’s brain, naturally a keen6 and cautious one, saw her
point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of
their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then
there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods
by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might
nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the
meaning of words like “jealousy” and “husband” if she had chanced7
to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was
something she had said to Clayton that had aroused8 his jealousy. And
now – his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie
Clayton’s room. There was nothing to show that he had not
1
spin round to turn round and round quickly
trickle to move slowly in a thin stream
3 dully in a lifeless manner
4 flat level tones the monotonous and expressionless voice
5 fender a frame around a fireplace to prevent burning coal or wood from falling out
(Fr. garde-feu)
6 keen clever, sharp
7 chance to to happen to
8 arouse to excite
2
deliberately assaulted1 Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing
to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them
together. There was only his word and Elsie’s. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped2 him.
He did not imagine – no, he really did not imagine – that either
he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder
they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could be only a charge
of manslaughter3 brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter
in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted4 of blame
there would have to be an inquiry5 – it would be reported in all the
papers. An English man and woman accused – jealous husband – rising
politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would
never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse:
“Can’t we get rid of the body somehow? Plant6 it somewhere?”
Mrs Rice’s astonished and scornful7 look made him blush. She
said incisively8:
“My dear Harold, this isn’t a detective story! To attempt a
thing like that would be quite crazy.”
“I suppose it would.” He groaned9. “What can we do? My God,
what can we do?”
Mrs Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning10, her
mind working painfully.
Harold demanded:
“Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?”
There, it was out – disaster! Terrible – unforeseen – utterly
damning11.
They stared at each other. Mrs Rice said hoarsely:
“Elsie – my little girl. I’d do anything ... It will kill her if she has
to go through a thing like this.” And she added: “You too, your career
– everything.”
Harold managed to say:
“Never mind me.”
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs Rice went on bitterly:
1
assault to attack
grip to hold tight
3 manslaughter the crime of killing sby without intending to (Fr. homicide
involontaire)
4 acquit to free sby from a charge or accusation (Fr. disculper)
5 inquiry an official investigation
6 plant to conceal, hide
7 scornful showing that you think an idea is stupid
8 incisively clearly and directly
9 groan to make a long, deep sound of pain or disappointment
10 frown to move your eyebrows together in an angry or unhappy expression
11 damning fatal
2
“And all so unfair – so utterly untrue! It’s not as though there
had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough.”
Harold suggested, catching at a straw1:
“You’ll be able to say that at least – that it was all perfectly all
right.”
Mrs Rice said bitterly:
“Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out
here are like!”
Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would
undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all
Mrs Rice’s denials2 would be taken as a mother lying herself black in
the face3 for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily:
“Yes, we’re not in England, worse luck.”
“Ah!” Mrs Rice lifted her head. “That’s true ... It’s not England.
I wonder now if something could be done – ”
“Yes?” Harold looked at her eagerly.
Mrs Rice said abruptly:
“How much money have you got?”
“Not much with me.” He added: “I could wire4 for money, of
course.”
Mrs Rice said grimly: “We may need a good deal. But I think
it’s worth trying.”
Harold felt a faint lifting5 of despair. He said:
“What is your idea?”
Mrs Rice spoke decisively.
“We haven’t a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I
do think there’s just a chance of hushing it up6 officially!”
“You really think so?” Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
“Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side.
He’d much rather have the thing hushed up. It’s my opinion that in
these out-of-the-way curious little Balkan countries you can bribe7
anyone and everyone – and the police are probably more corrupt than
anyone else!”
Harold said slowly:
“Do you know, I believe you’re right.”
Mrs Rice went on:
“Fortunately, I don’t think anyone in the hotel heard anything.”
1
catch at a straw to attempt to solve a difficulty by means that are unlikely to
succeed
2 denial a statement that says that sth is not true or does not exist
3 lie oneself black in the face to tell lies which are so blatant that your face is
dicoloured completely
4 wire to send a telegram
5 lift to disappear or disperse as if by rising
6 hush up to keep sth secret
7 bribe to pay money for help with dishonest motives
“Who has the room next to Elsie’s on the other side from
yours?”
“The two Polish ladies. They didn’t hear anything. They’d have
come out into the passage1 if they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw
him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe it will be
possible to hush the whole thing up – and get Philip’s death certified
as due to natural causes! It’s just a question of bribing high enough –
and finding the right man – probably the Chief of Police!”
Harold smiled faintly. He said:
“It’s rather Comic Opera, isn’t it? Well, after all, we can but
try.”
VI
Mrs Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned2.
Harold remained in his room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs Rice had
agreed that the story told had better be that of a quarrel between
husband and wife. Elsie’s youth and prettiness would command3 more
sympathy.
On the following morning various police officials arrived and
were shown up to Mrs Rice’s bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had
wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the proceedings –
indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official
personages spoke English.
At twelve o’clock Mrs Rice came to his room. She looked white
and tired, but the relief4 on her face told its own story. She said simply:
“It’s worked!”
“Thank heaven! You’ve really been marvellous! It seems incredible!”
Mrs Rice said thoughtfully:
“By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was
quite normal. They practically held out their hands5 right away. It’s –
it’s rather disgusting, really!”
Harold said dryly:
“This isn’t the moment to quarrel with the corruption of the
public services. How much?”
“The tariff’s rather high.”
She read out a list of figures.
“The Chief of Police.
The Commissaire.
The Agent.
The Doctor.
1
passage a corridor
summon to order sby to attend (Fr. convoquer)
3 command to win, to deserve and receive
4 relief removal of anxiety
5 hold out one’s hand i.e. like a beggar asking for money
2
The Hotel Manager.
The Night Porter.”
Harold’s comment was merely:
“The night porter doesn’t get much, does he? I suppose it’s
mostly a question of gold lace1.”
Mrs Rice explained:
“The manager stipulated that the death should not have taken
place in his hotel at all. The official story will be that Philip had a heart
attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air – you know how
they always leave those doors open – and he fell out on the line. It’s
wonderful what the police can do when they try!”
“Well,” said Harold. “Thank God our police force isn’t like
that.”
And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.
VII
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs Rice and her daughter for coffee.
He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour.
This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before.
She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she
made a gallant endeavour2 to behave as usual, uttering small
commonplaces3 about the weather and the scenery4.
They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying
to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be
French – Elsie said German – and Mrs Rice thought he might be
Spanish.
There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the
exception of the two Polish ladies who were sitting at the extreme end,
both doing fancywork5.
As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer6 shiver of
apprehension pass over him. Those still faces, those curved beaks of
noses, those long claw-like hands ...
A pageboy7 approached and told Mrs Rice she was wanted.
She rose and followed him. At the entrance to the hotel they saw her
encounter a police official in full uniform.
Elsie caught her breath8.
“You don’t think – anything’s gone wrong?”
Harold reassured her quickly.
“Oh no, no, nothing of that kind.”
1
lace fine cloth made with patterns of small holes (Fr. dentelle)
endeavour an attempt
3 commonplace an unoriginal or trivial remark, a platitude
4 scenery landscape
5 fancywork decorative sewing
6 queer strange
7 pageboy a boy servant in a hotel
8 catch one’s breath to cease breathing temporarily
2
But he himself knew a sudden pang1 of fear.
He said:
“Your mother’s been wonderful!”
“I know. Mother is a great fighter. She’ll never sit down under
defeat.” Elsie shivered. “But it is all horrible, isn’t it?”
“Now, don’t dwell on2 it. It’s all over and done with.”
Elsie said in a low voice:
“I can’t forget that – that it was I who killed him.”
Harold said urgently:
“Don’t think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that
really.”
Her face grew a little happier. Harold added:
“And anyway it’s past. The past is the past. Try never to think
of it again.”
Mrs Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw
that all was well.
“It gave me quite a fright3,” she said almost gaily4. “But it was
only a formality about some papers. Everything’s all right, my children.
We’re out of the shadow5. I think we might order ourselves a liqueur
on the strength of it.”
The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses.
Mrs Rice said: “To the Future!”
Harold smiled at Elsie and said:
“To your happiness!”
She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass:
“And to you – to your success! I’m sure you’re going to be a
very great man.”
With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light6
headed . The shadow had lifted! All was well ...
From the far end of the terrace the two bird-like women rose.
They rolled up their work carefully. They came across the stone flags7.
With little bows they sat down by Mrs Rice. One of them began
to speak. The other one let her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a
little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a nice smile ...
He looked over at Mrs Rice. She was listening to the Polish
woman and though he couldn’t understand a word, the expression on
Mrs Rice’s face was clear enough. All the old anguish8 and despair
came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word.
Presently9 the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went
into the hotel.
1
pang a sudden feeling of fear or pain
dwell on to continue to think about
3 fright a feeling of fear
4 gaily in a happy, cheerful way
5out of the shadow safe, out of trouble
6 light-headed unable to think clearly or to move unsteadily
7 flag a smooth, flat piece of stone used for paths, floors, etc. (Fr. dalle)
8 anguish great suffering caused by pain or worry
9 presently soon
2
Harold leaned forward. He said hoarsely:
“What is it?”
Mrs Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair.
“Those women are going to blackmail1 us. They heard everything last night. And now we’ve tried to hush it up, it makes the whole
thing a thousand times worse ... ”
VIII
Harold Waring was down by the lake. He had been walking feverishly
for over an hour, trying by sheer2 physical energy to still the clamour3
of despair that had attacked him.
He came at last to the spot where he had first noticed the two
grim women who held his life and Elsie’s in their evil talons4. He said
aloud:
“Curse them! Damn them for a pair of devilish bloodsucking
harpies!”
A slight cough made him spin round. He found himself facing
the luxuriantly5 moustached stranger who had just come out from the
shade of the trees.
Harold found it difficult to know what to say. This little man
must have almost certainly overheard what he had just said.
Harold, at a loss6, said somewhat ridiculously:
“Oh – er – good afternoon.”
In perfect English the other replied:
“But for you, I fear, it is not a good afternoon?”
“Well – er – I –” Harold was in difficulties again.
The little man said:
“You are, I think, in trouble, Monsieur? Can I be of any assistance to you?”
“Oh no thanks, no thanks! Just blowing off steam7, you know.”
The other said gently:
“But I think, you know, that I could help you. I am correct, am
I not, in connecting your troubles with two ladies who were sitting on
the terrace just now?
Harold stared at him.
“Do you know anything about them?” He added: “Who are
you, anyway?”
1
blackmail to get money from sby by threatening to tell secrets about them
sheer pure
3 clamour a strong feeling expressed loudly
4 talon a sharp curved nail on the feet of some birds that catch animals (Fr. serre,
griffe)
5 luxuriantly strongly and thickly
6 at a loss bewildered, perplexed, puzzled
7 blow off steam to give vent to one’s repressed emotions, esp. by talking or
behaving in an unrestrained manner (Fr. décompresser)
2
As though confessing to royal birth1 the little man said
modestly:
“I am Hercule Poirot. Shall we walk a little way into the wood
and you shall tell me your story? As I say, I think I can aid you.”
To this day, Harold is not quite certain what made him suddenly pour out the whole story to a man to whom he had only spoken
a few minutes before. Perhaps it was overstrain2. Anyway, it
happened. He told Hercule Poirot the whole story.
The latter listened in silence. Once or twice he nodded his
head gravely. When Harold came to a stop the other spoke dreamily.
“The Stymphalian Birds, with iron beaks, who feed on human
flesh and who dwell by the Stymphalian Lake ... Yes, it accords very
well.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harold staring.
Perhaps, he thought, this curious-looking little man was mad!
Hercule Poirot smiled.
“I reflect, that is all. I have my own way of looking at things,
you understand. Now as to this business of yours. You are very unpleasantly placed.”
Harold said impatiently:
“I don’t need you to tell me that!”
Hercule Poirot went on:
“It is a serious business, blackmail. These harpies will force you
to pay – and pay – and pay again! And if you defy them, well, what
happens?”
Harold said bitterly:
“The whole thing comes out. My career’s ruined, and a
wretched3 girl who’s never done anyone any harm will be put through
hell, and God knows what the end of it all will be!”
“Therefore,” said Hercule Poirot, “something must be done!”
Harold said baldly4: “What?”
Hercule Poirot leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He said (and
again a doubt of his sanity crossed Harold’s mind):
“It is the moment for the castanets5 of bronze.”
Harold said:
“Are you quite mad?”
The other shook his head. He said:
“Mais non! I strive6 only to follow the example of my great
predecessor, Hercules. Have a few hours’ patience, my friend. By
tomorrow I may be able to deliver you from your persecutors.”
IX
1
as though confessing to royal birth as if admitting that he belonged to the royal
family
2 overstrain too much worry
3 wretched pitiful
4 baldly in a way that is true but makes no attempt to be polite
5 castanets a musical instrument that consists of two small round pieces that you
hold in the hand and hit together with the fingers to make a noise
6 strive to try hard
Harold Waring came down the following morning to find Hercule
Poirot sitting alone on the terrace. In spite of himself Harold had been
impressed by Hercule Poirot’s promises.
He came up to him now and asked anxiously:
“Well?”
Hercule Poirot beamed1 upon him.
“It is well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything has settled2 itself satisfactorily.”
“But what has happened?”
Hercule Poirot replied dreamily:
“I have employed the castanets of bronze. Or, in modern
parlance3, I have caused metal wires to hum4 – in short I have
employed the telegraph! Your Stymphalian Birds, Monsieur, have
been removed to where they will be unable to exercise their ingenuity
for some time to come.”
“They were wanted by the police. They have been arrested?”
“Precisely.”
Harold drew a deep breath.
“How marvellous! I never thought of that.” He got up. “I must
find Mrs Rice and Elsie and tell them.”
“They know.”
“Oh good.” Harold sat down again. “Tell me just what – ”
He broke off.
Coming up the path from the lake were two figures with flapping cloaks and profiles like birds.
He exclaimed:
“I thought you said they had been taken away!”
Hercule Poirot followed his glance.
“Oh, those ladies? They are very harmless; Polish ladies of
good family, as the porter told you. Their appearance is, perhaps, not
very pleasing, but that is all.”
“But I don’t understand!”
“No, you do not understand! It is the other ladies who were
wanted by the police – the resourceful5 Mrs Rice and her lachrymose6
Mrs Clayton! It is they who are well-known birds of prey. Those two,
they make their living by blackmail, mon cher.”
Harold had a sensation of the world spinning round him. He
said faintly:
“But the man – the man who was killed?”
“No one was killed. There was no man!”
1
beam to have a big happy smile on your face
settle to arrange
3 parlance a particular language, dialect or jargon
4 hum to be very busy and full of activity
5 resourceful ingenious, inventive, practical, quick-witted
6 lachrymose often crying
2
“But I saw him!”
“Oh no. The tall deep-voiced Mrs Rice is a very successful male
impersonator1. It was she who played the part of the husband –
without her grey wig2 and suitably made up for the part.”
He leaned forward and tapped the other on the knee.
“You must not go through life being too credulous, my friend.
The police of a country are not so easily bribed – they are probably not
to be bribed at all – certainly not when it is a question of murder! These
women trade on the average Englishman’s ignorance of foreign
languages. Because she speaks French or German, it is always this Mrs
Rice who interviews the manager and takes charge of the affair. The
police arrive and go to her room, yes! But what actually passes3? You
do not know. Perhaps she says she has lost a brooch4 – something of
that kind. Any excuse to arrange for the police to come so that you
shall see them. For the rest, what actually happens? You wire for
money, a lot of money, and you hand it over to Mrs Rice who is in
charge of all the negotiations! And that is that! But they are greedy5,
these birds of prey. They have seen that you have taken an
unreasonable aversion to these two unfortunate Polish ladies. The
ladies in question come and hold a perfectly innocent conversation
with Mrs Rice and she cannot resist repeating the game. She knows
you cannot understand what is being said.
“So you will have to send for more money which Mrs Rice will
pretend to distribute to a fresh set6 of people.”
Harold drew a deep breath. He said:
“And Elsie – Elsie?”
Hercule Poirot averted his eyes7.
“She played her part very well. She always does. A most
accomplished little actress. Everything is very pure – very innocent.
She appeals, not to sex, but to chivalry8.”
Hercule Poirot added dreamily:
“That is always successful with Englishmen.”
Harold Waring drew a deep breath. He said crisply9:
“I’m going to set to work and learn every European language there is!
Nobody’s going to make a fool of me a second time!”
1
impersonator sby who pretends to be another person
wig a piece of artificial hair that is worn on the head
3 pass to happen
4 brooch a piece of jewellery that you fasten to your clothes
5 greedy always wanting more and more
6 fresh set another group
7 avert one’s eyes to look away from sth that you do not want to see
8 chivalry gallantry; courteous help and protection given to a woman by a man
9 crisply quickly and confidently
2
Dahl, Roald Going Solo (1986) [excerpt]
A life is made up of a great number of small incidents and a small
number of great ones. An autobiography must therefore, unless it is to
become tedious1, be extremely selective, discarding all the inconsequential incidents in one’s life and concentrating upon those that have
remained vivid in the memory.
The first part of this book takes up my own personal story
precisely where my earlier autobiography, which was called Boy2, left
off. I am away to East Africa on my first job, but because any job, even if
it is in Africa, is not continuously enthralling3, I have tried to be as
selective as possible and have written only about those moments that I
consider memorable.
In the second part of the book, which deals with the time I went
flying with the RAF4 in the Second World War, there was no need to
select or discard because every moment was, to me at any rate, totally
enthralling.
R.D.
Text based on: Dahl, Roald. 1986. Going Solo. London: Puffin.
Many thanks are due to Sarah Vandamme, whose bachelor paper in English
literature (2012-2013) provided the basis for the present edition.
Glosses carrying a mention have been borrowed from a number of different sources:
Sturrock, Donald (2010) Storyteller: The Authorized Biography of Roald Dahl (New
York: Simon & Shuster) [D.S.]; http://en.wikipedia.org [WIKI]
1
tedious causing fatigue or tedium, monotonous
Boy see Dahl, Roald (2008) Boy – Tales of Childhood (London: Puffin)
3 enthralling holding the attention completely, fascinating, spellbinding
4 RAF Royal Air Force
2
Dahl Going Solo (2)
Dahl Going Solo (3)
The Voyage Out
The ship that was carrying me away from England to Africa in the autumn of 1938 was called the SS1 Mantola2. She was an old paint-peeling tub3 of 9,000 tons with a single tall funnel4 and a vibrating engine
that rattled the tea-cups in their saucers on the dining-room table.
The voyage from the Port of London to Mombasa5 would take
two weeks and on the way we were going to call in6 at Marseilles,
Malta, Port Said, Suez, Port Sudan and Aden. Nowadays you can fly to
Mombasa in a few hours and you stop nowhere and nothing is
fabulous any more, but in 1938 a journey like that was full of steppingstones7 and East Africa was a long way from home, especially if your
contract with the Shell Company8 said that you were to stay out there
1
SS steamship
SS Mantola passenger steamship of the British-India Steam Navigation Company
(1921-1953) [WIKI]
3 tub a clumsy slow boat or ship
4 funnel a smokestack for smoke and exhaust gases, as on a steamship or steam
locomotive
5 Mombasa second largest city in Kenya
6 to call in to make a stop in a harbour
7 stepping-stone a circumstance that assists progress towards some goal
8 Shell Company oil company; Dahl’s job was to supply oil to the businesses in the
area for their machinery [D.S.]
2
Dahl Going Solo (4)
for three years at a stretch1. I was twenty-two when I left. I would be
twenty-five before I saw my family again.
What I still remember so clearly about that voyage is the extraordinary behaviour of my fellow passengers. I had never before
encountered that peculiar Empire-building breed of Englishman who
spends his whole life working in distant corners of British territory.
Please do not forget that in the 1930s the British Empire was still very
much the British Empire, and the men and women who kept it going
were a race of people that most of you have never encountered and
now you never will. I consider myself very lucky to have caught a
glimpse of this rare species while it still roamed the forests and foothills of the earth, for today it is totally extinct. More English than the
English, more Scottish than the Scots, they were the craziest bunch of
humans I shall ever meet. For one thing, they spoke a language of their
own. If they worked in East Africa, their sentences were sprinkled with
Swahili2 words, and if they lived in India then all manner of dialects
were intermingled. As well as this, there was a whole vocabulary of
much-used words that seemed to be universal among all these people.
An evening drink, for example, was always a sundowner3. A drink at
any other time was a chota peg4. One’s wife was the memsahib. To
have a look at something was to have a shufti. And from that one,
interestingly enough, RAF/Middle East slang for a reconnaissance
plane in the last war was a shufti kite. Something of poor quality was
shenzi. Supper was tiffin5 and so on and so forth. The Empire-builders’
jargon would have filled a dictionary. All in all, it was rather wonderful
for me, a conventional young lad from the suburbs, to be thrust
suddenly into the middle of this pack of sinewy6 sunburnt gophers7 and
their bright bony little wives, and what I liked best of all about them
was their eccentricities.
It would seem that when the British live for years in a foul and
sweaty climate among foreign people they maintain their sanity by
allowing themselves to go slightly dotty8. They cultivate bizarre habits
that would never be tolerated back home, whereas in far-away Africa
or in Ceylon or in India or in the Federated Malay States they could do
as they liked. On the SS Mantola just about everybody had his or her
own particular maggot in the brain9, and for me it was like watching a
kind of non-stop pantomime10 throughout the entire voyage. Let me
tell you about two or three of these comedians.
1
at a stretch at one time
Swahili a language of East Africa that is an official language of Kenya and Tanzania
and is widely used as a lingua franca throughout Eastern and central Africa
3 sundowner (informal, mainly British) an alcoholic drink taken at sunset
4 chota peg miniature jug used for individual servings of alcohol
5 tiffin derived from the obsolete English slang tiffing, for “taking a little drink or sip”
[WIKI]
6 sinewy muscular, brawny
7 gopher low-ranking employee who is made to do the bidding of their superiors
8 dotty feeble-minded, slightly crazy
9 to have a maggot in the brain to be a little crazy
10 pantomime a confused or farcical situation
2
Dahl Going Solo (5)
I was sharing my cabin with the manager of a cotton mill in the
Punjab called U.N. Savory (I could hardly believe those initials when I
first saw them on his trunk) and I had the upper berth. From my pillow
I could therefore look out of the port-hole1 clear across the lifeboat
deck and over the wide blue ocean beyond. On our fourth morning at
sea I happened to wake up very early. I lay in my bunk2 gazing idly
through the port-hole and listening to the gentle snores of U.N. Savory,
who lay immediately below me. Suddenly, the figure of a naked man,
naked as a jungle ape, went swooshing3 past the port-hole and
disappeared! He had come and gone in absolute silence and I lay there
wondering whether perhaps I had seen a phantom or a vision or even
a naked ghost.
A minute or two later the naked figure went by again!
This time I sat up sharply. I wanted to get a better look at this
leafless4 phantom of the sunrise, so I crawled down to the foot of my
bunk and stuck my head through the port-hole. The lifeboat deck was
deserted. The Mediterranean was calm and milky blue and a brilliant
yellow sun was just edging up over the horizon. The deck was so empty
and silent that I began to wonder seriously whether I might not after
all have seen a genuine apparition, the ghost perhaps of a passenger
who had fallen overboard on an earlier voyage and who now spent his
eternal life running above the waves and clambering5 back on to his
lost ship.
All of a sudden, from my little spy-hole, I spotted a movement
at the far end of the deck. Then a naked body materialized. But this
was no ghost. It was all too solid flesh, and the man was moving swiftly
over the deck between the lifeboats and the ventilators and making
no sound at all as he came galloping towards me. He was short and
stocky6 and slightly pot-bellied7 in his nakedness, with a big black
moustache on his face, and when he was twenty yards away he caught
sight of my silly head sticking out of the port-hole and he waved a hairy
arm at me and called out, ‘Come along, my boy! Come and join me in
a canter8! Blow some sea air into your lungs! Get yourself in trim9!
Shake off the flab10!’
By his moustache alone I recognized him as Major Griffiths, a
man who had told me only the night before at the dinner table how he
1
port-hole a small aperture in the side of a vessel to admit light and air
bunk a narrow shelf-like bed fixed along a wall
3 to swoosh to make or cause to make a rustling or swirling sound, esp. when moving
or pouring out
4 leafless bare
5 to clamber to climb (something) awkwardly, esp. by using both hands and feet
6 stocky (usually of a person) thickset, sturdy
7 pot-bellied (usually of a man) having a round, fat stomach which sticks out due to
eating or drinking too much
8 canter an easy three-beat gait of horses, etc., between a trot and a gallop in speed
9 in trim proper order or fitness, good shape
10 flab unsightly or unwanted fat on the body
2
Dahl Going Solo (6)
had spent thirty-six years in India and was returning once again to
Allahabad1 after the usual home leave.
I smiled weakly at the Major as he went prancing2 by, but I didn’t
pull back. I wanted to see him again. There was something rather
admirable about the way he was galloping round and round the deck with
no clothes on at all, something wonderfully innocent and unembarrassed
and cheerful and friendly. And here was I, a bundle of youthful selfconsciousness, gaping at him through the port-hole and disapproving
quite strongly of what he was doing. But I was also envying him. I was
actually jealous of his total don’t-give-a-damn attitude, and I wished like
mad that I myself had the guts to go out there and do the same thing. I
wanted to be like him. I longed to be able to fling off my pyjamas and go
scampering3 round the deck in the altogether4 and to hell with anyone
who happened to see me. But not in a million years could I have done it. I
waited for him to come round again.
Ah, there he was! I could see him far away down the deck, the
gallant galloping Major who didn’t give a fig5 for anybody, and I decided
right then that I would say something very casual to him this time to
show him I was ‘one of the gang’ and that I had not even noticed his
nakedness.
But hang on a minute! … What was this? … There was someone
with him! … There was another fellow scooting6 along beside him this
time! … As naked as the Major he was, too! … What on earth was going
on aboard this ship? … Did all the male passengers get up at dawn and
go tearing round the deck with no clothes on? … Was this some Empirebuilding body-building ritual I didn’t know about? … The two were
coming closer now … My God, the second one looked like a woman! … It
was a woman! … A naked woman as bare-bosomed as Venus de
Milo … But there the resemblance ceased for I could see now that this
scrawny7 white-skinned figure was none other than Mrs Major Griffiths
herself … I froze in my port-hole and my eyes became riveted8 on this
nude female scarecrow9 galloping ever so proudly alongside her bareskinned spouse, her elbows bent and her head held high, as much as to
say, ‘Aren’t we a jolly10 fine couple, the two of us, and isn’t he a fine
figure of a man, my husband the Major?’
‘Come along there!’ the Major called out to me. ‘If the little
memsahib can do it, so can you! Fifty times round the deck is only four
miles!’
‘Lovely morning,’ I murmured as they went galloping by.
‘Beautiful day.’
1
Allahabad major city in the north Indian state of Uttar Pradesh in India [WIKI]
to prance to walk in a pompous manner, to swagger
3 to scamper to run about playfully
4 in the altogether completely unclothed
5 not give a fig not care about something at all
6 to scoot to go or cause to go quickly or hastily, dart or cause to dart off or away
7 scrawny very thin and bony, scraggy
8 riveted fascinated, transfixed
9 scarecrow a very thin person
10 jolly (British) (intensifier)
2
Dahl Going Solo (7)
A couple of hours later, I was sitting opposite the Major and
his little memsahib at breakfast in the dining-room, and the knowledge
that not long ago I had seen that same little memsahib with not a
stitch1 on her made my spine creep. I kept my head down and pretended neither of them were there.
‘Ha!’ the Major cried suddenly. ‘Aren’t you the young fellow
who had his head sticking through the port-hole this morning?’
‘Who, me?’ I murmured, keeping my nose in the cornflakes.
‘Yes, you!’ the Major cried, triumphant. ‘I never forget a face!’
‘I … I was just getting a breath of air,’ I mumbled.
‘You were getting a darn sight2 more than that!’ the Major
cried out, grinning. ‘You were getting an eyeful of the memsahib, that’s
what you were doing!’
The whole of our table of eight people suddenly became silent
and looked in my direction. I felt my cheeks beginning to boil.
‘I can’t say I blame you,’ the Major went on, giving his wife an
enormous wink. It was his turn to be proud and gallant now. ‘In fact, I
don’t blame you at all. Would you blame him?’ he asked, addressing
the rest of the table. ‘After all, we’re only young once. And, as the poet
says …’ he paused, giving the dreadful wife another colossal wink … ’a
thing of beauty is a joy for ever.’
‘Oh, do shut up, Bonzo,’ the wife said, loving it.
‘Back in Allahabad,’ the Major said, looking at me now, ’I make
a point of playing half-a-dozen chukkas3 every morning before
breakfast. Can’t do that on board ship, you know. So I have to get my
exercise in other ways.’
I sat there wondering how one played this game of chuckers.
‘Why can’t you do it?’ I said, desperate to change the subject.
‘Why can’t I do what?’ the Major said.
‘Play chuckers on the ship?’ I said.
The Major was one of those men who chewed his porridge. He
stared at me with pale-grey glassy eyes, chewing slowly. ‘I hope you’re
not trying to tell me that you have never played polo in your life,’ he
said.
‘Polo,’ I said. ‘Ah yes, of course, polo. At school we used to play
it on bicycles with hockey sticks.’
The Major’s stare switched suddenly to a fierce glare and he
stopped chewing. He glared at me with such contempt4 and horror,
and his face went so crimson, I thought he might be going to have a
seizure5.
1
not a stitch not the least fragment of clothing
a darn sight a great deal
3 chukkas a period of continuous play in a game of polo, generally lasting 7½ minutes
(US chukkers)
4 contempt the attitude or feeling of a person towards a person or thing that he
considers worthless or despicable; scorn
5 seizure (pathology) a sudden manifestation or recurrence of a disease, such as an
epileptic convulsion
2
Dahl Going Solo (8)
From then on, neither the Major nor his wife would have
anything to do with me. They changed their table in the dining-room
and they cut me dead1 whenever we met on deck. I had been found
guilty of a great and unforgivable crime. I had jeered2, or so they
thought, at the game of polo, the sacred sport of Anglo-Indians and
royalty. Only a bounder3 would do that.
Then there was the elderly Miss Trefusis, who quite often sat
at the same dining-room table as me. Miss Trefusis was all bones4 and
grey skin, and when she walked her body was bent forward in a long
curve like a boomerang. She told me she owned a small coffee farm in
the highlands of Kenya and that she had known Baroness Blixen5 very
well. I myself had read and loved both Out of Africa6 and Seven Gothic
Tales7, and I listened enthralled to everything Miss Trefusis told me
about that fine writer who called herself Isak Dinesen.
‘She was dotty, of course,’ Miss Trefusis said. ‘Like all of us who
live out there, she went completely dotty in the end.’
‘You aren’t dotty,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, I am,’ she said firmly and very seriously. ‘Everyone on
this ship is as dotty as a dumpling8. You don’t notice it because you’re
young. Young people are not watchful. They only look at themselves.’
‘I saw Major Griffiths and his wife running round the deck
naked the other morning,’ I said.
‘You call that dotty?’ Miss Trefusis said with a snort. ‘That’s normal.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
‘You’ve got a few shocks coming to you, young man, before
you’re very much older, you mark my words9,’ she said. ‘People go
quite barmy10 when they live too long in Africa. That’s where you’re
off to, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You’ll go barmy for sure,’ she said, ‘like the rest of us.’
She was eating an orange at the time and I noticed suddenly
that she was not eating it in the normal way. In the first place she had
speared it from the fruit bowl with her fork instead of taking it in her
fingers. And now, with knife and fork, she was making a series of neat
incisions in the skin all around the orange. Then, very delicately, using
the points of her knife and fork, she peeled the skin away in eight
separate pieces, leaving the bare fruit beautifully exposed. Still using
knife and fork, she separated the juicy segments and began to eat
them slowly, one by one, with her fork.
1
to cut a person dead (informal) to ignore a person completely
to jeer to laugh or scoff (at a person or thing), to mock
3 bounder (old-fashioned, British, slang) an unreliable, morally reprehensible person
4 to be all bones to be very thin
5 Baroness Blixen Danish author also known by her pen name Isak Dinesen [WIKI]
6 Out of Africa a memoir by Isak Dinesen about her time in Kenya [WIKI]
7 Seven Gothic Tales the first book by Isak Dinesen [WIKI]
8 dumpling a small ball of dough cooked and served with stew
9 (you) mark my words something that you say when you tell someone about
something that you are certain will happen in the future
10 barmy (slang) eccentric or foolish
2
Dahl Going Solo (9)
‘Do you always eat an orange like that?’ I said.
‘Of course.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I never touch anything I eat with my fingers,’ she said.
‘Good Lord, don’t you really?’
‘Never. I haven’t since I was twenty-two.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’ I asked her.
‘Of course there’s a reason. Fingers are filthy.’
‘But you wash your hands.’
‘I don’t sterilize them,’ Miss Trefusis said. ‘Nor do you. They’re
full of bugs1. Disgusting dirty things, fingers. Just think what you do
with them!’
I sat there going through the things I did with my fingers.
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ Miss Trefusis said.
‘Fingers are just implements2. They are the gardening implements of
the body, the shovels and the forks. You push them into everything.’
‘We seem to survive,’ I said.
‘Not for long you won’t,’ she said darkly.
I watched her eating her orange, spearing the little boats one
after the other with her fork. I could have told her that the fork wasn’t
sterilized either, but I kept quiet.
‘Toes are even worse,’ she said suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They’re the worst of all,’ she said.
‘What’s wrong with toes?’
‘They are the nastiest part of the human body!’ she
announced vehemently3.
‘Worse than fingers?’
‘There’s no comparison,’ she snapped. ‘Fingers are foul and
filthy, but toes! Toes are reptilian4 and viperish5! I don’t wish to talk
about them!’
I was getting a bit confused. ‘But one doesn’t eat with one’s
toes,’ I said.
‘I never said you did,’ Miss Trefusis snapped.
‘Then what’s so awful about them?’ I persisted.
‘Uck!’ she said. ‘They are like little worms sticking out of your
feet. I hate them, I hate them! I can’t bear to look at them!’
‘Then how do you cut your toenails?’
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘My boy does it for me.’
I wondered why she was ‘Miss’ if she’d been married and had
a boy of her own. Perhaps he was illegitimate.‘How old is your son?’ I
asked, treading carefully.
1
bug a microorganism, esp. a bacterium, that produces disease
implement a piece of equipment, tool or utensil
3 vehemently intensely, vigorously, emphatically
4 reptilian like a reptile
5 viperish like a snake
2
Dahl Going Solo (10)
‘No, no, no!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you know anything? A “boy” is
one’s native servant. Didn’t you learn that when you read Isak
Dinesen?
‘Ah yes, of course,’ I said, remembering.
Absentmindedly I took an orange myself and was about to
start peeling it.
‘Don’t,’ Miss Trefusis said, shuddering1. ‘You’ll catch something if you do that. Use your knife and fork. Go on. Try it.’
I tried it. It was rather fun. There was something satisfying
about cutting the skin to just the right depth and then peeling away
the segments.‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Well done.’
‘Do you employ a lot of “boys” on your coffee farm?’ I asked her.
‘About fifty,’ she said.
‘Do they go barefoot?’
‘Mine don’t,’ she said. ‘No one works for me without shoes on.
It costs me a fortune, but it’s worth it.’
I liked Miss Trefusis. She was impatient, intelligent, generous
and interesting. I felt she would come to my rescue at any time,
whereas Major Griffiths was vapid2, vulgar, arrogant and unkind, the
sort of man who’d leave you to the crocodiles. He might even push you
in. Both of them, of course, were completely dotty. Everyone on the
ship was dotty, but none, as it turned out, was quite as dotty as my
cabin companion, U.N. Savory.
The first sign of his dottiness was revealed to me one evening
as our ship was running between Malta and Port Said. It had been a
stifling hot afternoon and I was having a brief rest on my upper berth
before dressing for dinner.
Dressing? Oh yes, indeed. We all dressed for dinner every
single evening on board that ship. The male species of the Empirebuilder, whether he is camping in the jungle or is at sea in a rowingboat, always dresses for dinner, and by that I mean white shirt, black
tie, dinner-jacket, black trousers and black patent-leather shoes, the
full regalia3, and to hell with the climate.
I lay still on my bunk with my eyes half open. Below me, U.N.
Savory was getting dressed. There wasn’t room in the cabin for two of
us to change our clothes simultaneously, so we took it in turns to go
first. It was his turn to dress first tonight. He had tied his bow-tie and
now he was putting on his black dinner-jacket. I was watching him
rather dreamily through half-closed eyes, and I saw him reaching into
his sponge-bag and take out a small carton. He stationed himself in
front of the washbasin mirror, took the lid off the carton and dipped
his fingers into it. The fingers came out with a pinch of white powder
1
to shudder to shake or tremble suddenly and violently, as from horror, fear,
aversion, etc.
2 vapid boring or dull, lifeless
3 regalia any splendid or special clothes, finery
or crystals, and this stuff he proceeded to sprinkle1 very carefully over
the shoulders of his dinner-jacket. Then he replaced the lid on the
carton and put it back in the sponge-bag.
Suddenly I was fully alert. What on earth was the man up to? I
didn’t want him to know I’d seen, so I closed my eyes and pretended to
be asleep. This is a rum2 business, I thought. Why in the world would
U.N. Savory want to sprinkle white stuff on to the shoulders of his
dinner-jacket? And what was it, anyway? Could it be some subtle
perfume or a magic aphrodisiac? I waited until he had left the cabin,
then, feeling only slightly guilty, I hopped down from my bunk and
opened his sponge-bag. EPSOM SALTS3, it said on the little carton! And
Epsom salts it was! Now what good could Epsom salts possibly do him
sprinkled on his shoulders? I had always thought of him as a queer fish,
a man with secrets, though I hadn’t discovered what they were. Under
his bunk he kept a tin trunk and a black leather case. There was nothing
odd about the tin trunk, but the case puzzled me. It was roughly the size
of a violin case but the lid didn’t bulge as the lid of a violin case does,
and it wasn’t tapered4. It was simply a three-foot-long rectangular
leather box with two very strong brass5 locks on it.
‘Do you play the violin?’ I had once said to him.
‘Don’t be daft6,’ he had answered. ‘I don’t even play the
gramophone.’
Perhaps it contained a sawn-off shotgun then, I told myself. It
was about the right size.
I put the carton of Epsom salts back in his sponge-bag, then I
took a shower, dressed and went upstairs to have a drink before dinner. There was one stool vacant at the bar so I sat down and ordered
a glass of beer. There were eight sinewy sunburnt gophers including
U.N. Savory sitting on high stools at the bar. The stools were screwed
to the floor. The bar was semi-circular so that everyone could talk
across to everyone else. U.N. Savory was sitting about five places away
from me. He was drinking a gimlet, which was the Empire-builder’s
name for a gin with lime juice in it. I sat there listening to the small talk
about pig-sticking7 and polo and how curry will cure constipation. I felt
a total outsider. There was nothing I could contribute to the
conversation so I stopped listening and concentrated on trying to solve
the riddle of the Epsom salts. I glanced at U.N. Savory. From where I
sat, I could actually see the tiny white crystals on his shoulders.
Then a funny thing happened.
1
to sprinkle to scatter (liquid, powder, etc.) in tiny particles or droplets over
(something)
2 rum (British slang) strange, peculiar, odd
3 Epsom Salts common appellation for Magnesium sulphate, traditionally used as a
component of bath salts
4 tapered becoming narrower towards one end
5 brass an alloy of copper and zinc containing more than 50 per cent of copper.
6 daft (informal) foolish, simple, or stupid
7 pig-sticking the sport of hunting wild boar
U.N. Savory suddenly began brushing the Epsom salts off one
of his shoulders with his hand. He did it ostentatiously, slapping the
shoulder quite hard and saying at the same time in a rather loud voice,
‘Ruddy dandruff1! I’m fed up with it! Do any of you fellers know a good
cure?’
‘Try coconut oil,’ one said.
‘Bay rum2 and cantharides3,’ another said.
A tea-planter from Assam called Unsworth said, ‘Take my
word for it, old man, you’ve got to stimulate the circulation in the
scalp. And the way to do that is to dunk your hair in ice-cold water
every morning and keep it there for five minutes. Then dry vigorously.
You’ve got a fine head of hair at the moment, but you’ll be as bald as
a coot4 in no time if you don’t cure that dandruff. You do as I say, old
man.’
U.N. Savory did indeed have a fine head of black hair, so why
in the world should he have wanted to pretend he had dandruff when
he hadn’t?
‘Thanks a lot, old man,’ U.N. Savory said. ‘I’ll give it a go. See if
it works.’
‘It’ll work,’ Unsworth told him. ‘My grandmother cured her
dandruff that way.’
‘Your grandmother?’ someone said. ‘Did she have dandruff?’
‘When she combed her hair’, Unsworth said, ‘it looked like it
was snowing.’
For the hundredth time, I told myself that they were all totally
and incurably dotty, every one of them, but I was beginning to think
now that U.N. Savory might beat them all to it. I sat there staring into
my beer and trying to figure out why he should go around trying to kid
everyone he had dandruff. Three days later I had the answer.
It was early evening. We were moving slowly through the Suez
Canal and it was hotter than ever. It was my turn to dress first for
dinner. While I showered and put on my clothes, U.N. Savory lay on his
bunk staring into space. ‘It’s all yours,’ I said at last as I opened the
door and went out. ‘See you upstairs.’
As usual, I seated myself at the bar and began sipping a beer.
By gosh, it was hot. The big slowly-revolving fan in the ceiling seemed
to be blowing steam out of its blades. Sweat trickled down my neck
and under my stiff butterfly collar5. I could feel the starch6 in the collar
1
dandruff loose scales of dry dead skin shed from the scalp
bay rum an aromatic liquid, used in medicines and cosmetics, originally obtained by
distilling the leaves of the bayberry tree (Pimenta racemosa) with rum; now also
synthesized from alcohol, water, and various oils
3 cantharides substance obtained from dried beetles (Cantharis vesicatoria) and used
as a counterirritant
4 to be as bald as a coot to be completely bald (= having no hair on your head); a
coot is a small, dark grey bird with a circle of white feathers on its head
5 butterfly collar a stiff turned-up shirt collar worn with the points turned down over
the tie
6 starch it is fine white powder that forms a translucent viscous solution on boiling
with water and is used to stiffen fabric and in many industrial processes
2
going soggy1 around the back. The sinewy sunburnt ones around me
didn’t seem to notice the heat. I decided to go out on deck and smoke
a pipe before dinner. It would be cooler there. I felt for my pipe.
Damnation, I had left it behind. I stood up and made my way
downstairs to the cabin and opened the door. There was a strange man
sitting in shirtsleeves on U.N. Savory’s bunk and as I stepped inside,
the man gave a queer little yelp and jumped to his feet as though a
cracker had gone off in the seat of his pants.
The stranger was totally bald and that is why it took me a second
or two to realize that he was in fact none other than U.N. Savory himself.
It is extraordinary how hair on the head or the lack of it will completely
change a person’s appearance. U.N. Savory looked like a different man.
To start with, he looked fifteen years older, and in some subtle way he
seemed also to have diminished, grown much shorter and smaller. As I
said, he was almost totally bald, and the dome of his head was as pink
and shiny as a ripe peach. He was standing up now and holding in his
two hands the wig2 he had been about to put on as I walked in. ‘You had
no right to come back!’ he shouted. ‘You said you’d finished!’ Little
sparks of fury were flashing in his eyes.
‘I’m … I’m most awfully sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I forgot my pipe.’
He stood there glaring at me with that dark malevolent glint in his eye
and I could see little droplets of perspiration oozing out of the pores
on his bald head. I felt very bad. I didn’t know what to say next. ‘Just
let me get my pipe and I’ll clear out,’ I mumbled.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve seen it now and you’re
not leaving this room until you’ve made me a promise! You’ve got to
promise me you won’t tell a soul! Promise me that!’
1
2
soggy soaked with liquid
wig an artificial head of hair, either human or synthetic, worn to disguise baldness
Behind him I could see that curious black leather ‘violin case’
lying open on his bunk, and in it, nestling alongside each other like
three large black hairy hedgehogs1, lay three more wigs.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being bald,’ I said.
‘I didn’t ask for your opinion,’ he shouted. He was still very
angry. ‘I just want your promise.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ I said. ‘I give you my word.’
‘And you’d better keep it,’ he said.
Then I began rummaging round in various places for my tobacco
pouch. U.N. Savory sat down on the lower bunk. ‘I suppose you think I’m
crazy,’ he said. Suddenly all the bark had gone out of his voice.
I said nothing. I could think of nothing to say.
‘You do, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You think I’m crazy.’
‘Not at all,’ I answered. ‘A man can do as he likes.’
‘I’ll bet you think it’s just vanity,’ he said. ‘But it’s not vanity.
It’s nothing to do with vanity.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Really it is.’
‘It’s business,’ he said. ‘I do it purely for business reasons. I
work in Amritsar2, in the Punjab3. That is the homeland of the Sikhs4.
To a Sikh, hair is a sort of religion. A Sikh never cuts his hair. He either
rolls it up on the top of his head or in a turban. A Sikh doesn’t respect
a bald man.’
‘In that case I think it’s very clever of you to wear a wig,’ I said.
I had to live in this cabin with U.N. Savory for several days yet and I
didn’t want a row. ‘It’s quite brilliant,’ I added.
‘Do you honestly think so?’ he said, melting.
‘It’s a stroke of genius.’
‘I go to a lot of trouble to convince all those Sikh wallahs5 it’s
my own hair,’ he went on.
‘You mean the dandruff bit?’
‘You saw it, then?’
‘Of course I saw it. It was brilliant.’
‘It’s just one of my little ruses,’ he said. He was getting just a
trifle smug now. ‘No one’s going to suspect me of wearing a wig if I’ve
got dandruff, are they?’
‘Certainly not. It’s quite brilliant. But why bother doing it here?
There aren’t any Sikhs on this ship.’
‘You never know,’ he said darkly. ‘You never can tell who might
be lurking around the corner.’
The man was as potty6 as a pilchard7.
1
hedgehog small brown animal with sharp spikes covering its back
Amritsar city in the north-western part of India [WIKI]
3 Punjab state in the northwest of the Republic of India [WIKI]
4 Sikh a member of an Indian religion that separated from Hinduism and was
founded in the 16th century, that teaches monotheism and that has the Granth as its
chief religious document, rejecting the authority of the Vedas
5 wallah (informal) a person involved with or in charge of (a specified thing)
6 potty foolish or slightly crazy
7 pilchard a European food fish, Sardina (or Clupea) pilchardus, with a rounded body
covered with large scales
2
‘I see you have more than one,’ I said, pointing to the black
leather case.
‘One’s no good,’ he said, ‘not if you’re going to do it properly
like me. I always carry four, and they’re all slightly different. You are
forgetting that hair grows, old man, aren’t you? Each one of these is
longer than the other. I put on a longer one every week.’
‘What happens after you’ve worn the longest one and you
can’t go any further?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s the clincher1.’
‘I don’t quite follow you.’
‘I simply say, “Does anyone know of a good barber round
here?” And the next day I start all over again with the shortest one.’
‘But you said Sikhs didn’t approve of cutting hair.’
‘I only do that with Europeans,’ he said.
I stared at him. The man was stark raving barmy. I felt I would
go barmy myself if I went on talking to him much longer. I edged
towards the door. ‘I think you’re amazing,’ I said. ‘You’re quite brilliant.
And don’t worry about a thing. My lips are sealed.’
‘Thanks old man,’ U.N. Savory said. ‘Good lad.’
I flew out of the cabin and shut the door.
And that is the story of U.N. Savory.
You don’t believe it?
Listen, I could hardly believe it myself as I staggered upstairs
to the bar.
I kept my promise though. I told no one. Today it no longer
matters. The man was at least thirty years older than me, so by now
his soul is at rest and his wigs are probably being used by his nephews
and nieces for playing charades.
SS Mantola
4 October 1938
Dear Mama,
We’re now in the Red Sea, and it is hot. The wind is behind us and going at
exactly the same speed as the boat so there is not a breath of air on board.
Three times they have turned the ship round against the wind to get some air
into the cabins and into the engine room. Fans merely blow hot air into your
face.
The deck is strewn2 with a lot of limp wet things for all the world like
a lot of wet towels steaming over the kitchen boiler. They just smoke cigarettes
& shout, ‘Boy – another iced lager.’
I don’t feel the heat much – probably because I’m thin. In fact as
soon as I’ve finished this letter I’m going off to have a vigorous game of deck
tennis with another thin man – a government vet called Hammond. We play
1
2
clincher (informal) something decisive, such as a fact, score, etc.
to strew to spread or scatter or be spread or scattered, as over a surface or area
with our shirts off, throwing the coit1 as hard as we can – & when we have to
stop for fear of drowning in our own sweat we just jump into the swimming
bath.
1
coit game in which flat rings of iron or rope are pitched at a stake, with points
awarded for encircling it (also quoit)
Dar es Salaam1
The temperature in the shade was around 120ºF2 on board the
SS Mantola as she crept southwards down the Red Sea towards Port
Sudan. The breeze was behind us and it blew at exactly the same speed
as the ship. There was, therefore, no movement of air at all on board.
Three times during the first day they turned the ship around and sailed
against the wind to blow some air through the port-holes and over the
decks. This made little difference and even the sinewy sunburnt
gophers and their tough bony little wives became silent and
exhausted. Like me, they sprawled in deck-chairs under the awning3,
gasping for breath while the sweat ran down their faces and necks and
arms and dripped from their elbows on to the wooden deck. It was
even too hot to read.
During the second day in the Red Sea, the Mantola passed
very close to an Italian ship which, like us, was going south. She wasn’t
more than 200 yards away from us and her decks were crowded with
women! There must have been several thousand of them all over the
ship and not a man in sight. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of the ship’s officers, who was
standing near me on the rail. ‘Why all the girls?’
‘They’re for the Italian soldiers,’ he said.
‘What Italian soldiers?’
‘The ones in Abyssinia4,’ he said. ‘Mussolini is trying to conquer
Abyssinia and he’s got a hundred thousand troops in there. Now they
are shipping out Italian girls to keep the soldiers happy.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘They’re going out in boatloads,’ the officer said. ‘One girl for
every soldier in the ranks, two for each Colonel and three for a
General.’
‘Be serious,’ I said.
‘They really are for the soldiers,’ he said. ‘It is such a rotten
pointless war and the soldiers all hate it and they are fed up with
massacring the wretched Abyssinians. So Mussolini is sending out
thousands of girls to boost their morale.’
I waved to the girls on the other ship and about 2,000 of them
waved back at me. They seemed very cheerful. I wondered how long
they would be feeling that way.
1
Dar es Salaam in 1936, Shell set up an oil terminal on the coast, in the capital, Dar
es Salaam, and Dahl was appointed as the most junior of the three-man team
charged with running it [D.S.]
2 120°F almost 50° C
3 awning a roof of canvas or other material supported by a frame to provide
protection from the weather, esp. one placed over a doorway or part of a deck of a
ship
4 Abyssinia a former name for Ethiopia
At last the Mantola reached Mombasa, and there I was met by
a man from the Shell Company who told me I was to proceed at once
down the coast to Dar es Salaam, in Tanganyika (now Tanzania). ‘It will
take you a day and a night to get there,’ he said, ‘and you travel on a
little coastal vessel called the Dumra. Here’s your ticket.’
I transferred to the Dumra and it sailed the same day. That
evening we called in at Zanzibar1 where the air was filled with the
amazing spicy-sweet scent of cloves2, and I stood by the rail gazing at
the old Arab town and thinking what a lucky young fellow I was to be
seeing all these marvellous places free of charge and with a good job
at the end of it all. We left Zanzibar at midnight and I went to bed in
my tiny cabin knowing that tomorrow would be journey’s end.
When I woke up the next morning the ship’s engines had
stopped. I jumped out of my bunk and peered through the port-hole.
This was my first glimpse of Dar es Salaam and I have never forgotten
it. We were anchored out in the middle of a vast rippling blue-black
lagoon3 and all around the rim of the lagoon there were pale-yellow
sandy beaches, almost white, and breakers were running up on to the
sand, and coconut palms with their little green leafy hats were growing
on the beaches, and there were casuarina trees, immensely tall and
breathtakingly beautiful with their delicate grey-green foliage. And
then behind the casuarinas was what seemed to me like a jungle, a
great tangle of tremendous dark-green trees that were full of shadows
and almost certainly teeming4, so I told myself, with rhinos and lions
and all manner of vicious beasts. Over to one side lay the tiny town of
Dar es Salaam, the houses white and yellow and pink, and among the
1
Zanzibar an island in the Indian Ocean
clove the dried unopened flower buds of spice a tropical evergreen myrtaceous
tree, used as a pungent fragrant
3 lagoon a body of water cut off from the open sea by coral reefs or sand bars
4 teeming abounding in people, animals, etc.
2
houses I could see a narrow church steeple1 and a domed mosque and
along the waterfront there was a line of acacia trees splashed with
scarlet flowers. A fleet of canoes was rowing out to take us ashore and
the black-skinned rowers were chanting weird songs in time with their
rowing.
The whole of that amazing tropical scene through the porthole has been photographed on my mind ever since. To me it was all
wonderful, beautiful and exciting. And so it remained for the rest of
my time in Tanganyika. I loved it all. There were no furled2 umbrellas,
no bowler hat3, no sombre grey suits and I never once had to get on a
train or a bus.
Only three young Englishmen ran the Shell Company in the
whole of that vast territory, and I was the youngest and the junior.
When we were not ‘on the road’, we lived in the splendid large Shell
Company house perched on the top of the cliffs outside Dar es Salaam,
and we were treated like princes. Our domestic staff consisted of a
male native cook affectionately called Piggy because the Swahili for
cook is mpishi. There was a shamba-boy or gardener called Salimu and
a personal ‘boy’ for each of us. Your boy was really a kind of valet and
jack of all trades4. He was expert at sewing and mending and washing
and ironing and polishing and making sure there weren’t scorpions in
your mosquito boots before you put them on, and he became your
friend. He looked after nobody else but you and there was nothing he
did not know about your life and your habits. In return, you looked
after him and his wives (never less than two) and his children who lived
in their own quarters at the back of the house.
1
steeple a tall ornamental tower that forms the superstructure of a church, temple,
etc.
2 to furl to roll up (an umbrella, a flag, etc.) neatly and securely
3 bowler a stiff felt hat with a rounded crown and narrow curved brim
4 jack of all trades a person who undertakes many different kinds of work
My boy was called Mdisho. He was a Mwanumwezi1 tribesman, which meant a lot out there because the Mwanumwezi was the
only tribe who had ever defeated the gigantic Masai in battle. Mdisho
was tall and graceful and soft-spoken, and his loyalty to me, his young
white English master, was absolute. I hope, and I believe, that I was
equally loyal to him.
The first thing you had to do when you came to work in Dar es
Salaam was to learn Swahili, otherwise you could not communicate
either with your own boy or with any other native of the country
because none of them spoke a word of English. In those benighted2
days of Empire it was considered impertinent for a black man to understand English, let alone to speak it. The result was that none of them
made any effort to learn our language, so we had to learn theirs
instead. Swahili is a relatively simple language, and with the help of a
Swahili-English dictionary and a grammar book, plus some hard work
in the evenings, you could become pretty fluent in a couple of months.
Then you took an exam and if you passed it, the Shell Company gave
you a bonus of a hundred pounds, which was a lot of money in those
days when a case of whisky cost only twelve pounds.
1
Mwanumwezi Dahl describes Mdisho as coming from the nonexistent
Mwanumwezi tribe; it is likely he intended to write Nyamwezi, the main tribe from
the area in northwest Tanzania where Mdisho was born [D.S.]
2 benighted lacking cultural, moral, or intellectual enlightenment; ignorant
Sometimes I would have to go on safari upcountry and Mdisho
always came with me. We would take the Shell station-wagon and be
gone for a month, driving all over Tanganyika on dirt roads that were
covered with millions of tiny close-together ruts1. Driving over those
ruts in a station-wagon felt as though you were riding on top of a
gigantic vibrator. We would drive far west to the edge of Lake
Tanganyika in central Africa and on down south to the borders of
Nyasaland, and after that we would head east towards Mozambique,
and the purpose of these trips was to visit our Shell customers. These
customers ran diamond mines and gold mines and sisal2 plantations
and cotton plantations and goodness knows what else besides, and my
job was to keep their machinery supplied with the proper grades of
lubricating oil and fuel oil. Not a great deal of intelligence or
imagination was required, but by gum3 you needed to be fit and tough.
I loved that life. We saw giraffe standing unafraid right beside
the road nibbling the tops of the trees. We saw plenty of elephant and
hippo and zebra and antelope and very occasionally a pride4 of lions.
The only creatures I was frightened of were the snakes. We used often
to see a big one gliding across the dirt road ahead of the car, and the
golden rule was never to accelerate and try to run it over, especially if
the roof of the car was open, as ours often was. If you hit a snake at
speed, the front wheel can flip it up into the air and there is a danger
of it landing in your lap. I can think of nothing worse than that.
The really bad snake in Tanganyika is the black mamba. It is
the only one that has no fear of man and will deliberately attack him
on sight. If it bites you, you are a gonner5.
One morning I was shaving myself in the bathroom of our Dar
es Salaam house, and as I lathered my face I was absent-mindedly
gazing out of the window into the garden. I was watching Salimu, our
shamba-boy6, as he slowly and methodically raked the gravel on the
1
rut a groove or furrow in a soft road, caused by wheels
sisal a Mexican agave plant, Agave sisalana, cultivated for its large fleshy leaves,
which yield a stiff fibre used for making rope
3 by gum mild oath (euphemism for God)
4 pride of lions a group (of lions)
5 gonner (slang) a person or thing beyond help or recovery, esp. a person who is
dead or about to die
6 shamba-boy servant working in a plantation or a portion of cultivated land
2
front drive. Then I saw the snake. It was six feet long and thick as my
arm and quite black. It was a mamba all right and there was no doubt
that it had seen Salimu and was gliding fast over the gravel straight
towards him.
I flung myself toward the open window and yelled in Swahili,
‘Salimu! Salimu! Angalia nyoka kubwa! Nyuma wewe! Upesi upesi!’, in
other words, ‘Salimu! Salimu! Beware huge snake! Behind you! Quickly
quickly!’
The mamba was moving over the gravel at the speed of a
running man and when Salimu turned and saw it, it could not have
been more than fifteen paces away from him. There was nothing more
I could do. There was not much Salimu could do either. He knew it was
useless to run because a mamba at full speed could travel as fast as a
galloping horse. And he certainly knew it was a mamba. Every native
in Tanganyika knew what a mamba looked like and what to expect
from it. It would reach him in another five seconds. I leant out of the
window and held my breath. Salimu swung round and faced the snake.
I saw him go into a crouch1. He crouched very low with one leg behind
the other like a runner about to start a hundred yard sprint, and he
was holding the long rake out in front of him. He raised it, but no higher
than his shoulder, and he stood there for those long four or five
seconds absolutely motionless, watching the great black deadly snake
as it glided so quickly over the gravel towards him. Its small triangular
snake’s head was raised up in the air, and I could hear the soft rustling
of the gravel as the body slid over the loose stones. I have the whole
nightmarish picture of that scene still before my eyes – the morning
sunshine on the garden, the massive baobab tree in the background,
Salimu in his old khaki shorts and shirt and bare feet standing brave
and absolutely still with the upraised rake in his hands, and to one side
the long black snake gliding over the gravel straight towards him with
its small poisonous head held high and ready to strike.
Salimu waited. He never moved or made a sound during the
time it took the snake to reach him. He waited until the very last
moment when the mamba was not more than five feet away and
then wham! Salimu struck first. He brought the metal prongs2 of the
rake down hard right on to the middle of the mamba’s back and he
held the rake there with all his weight, leaning forward now and
jumping up and down to put more weight on the fork in an effort to
pin the snake to the ground. I saw the blood spurt where the prongs
had gone right into the snake’s body and then I rushed downstairs
absolutely naked, grabbing a golf club as I went through the hall, and
outside on the drive Salimu was still there pressing with both hands on
the rake and the great snake was writhing and twisting and throwing
itself about, and I shouted to Salimu in Swahili, ‘What shall I do?’
1
to crouch to bend low with the limbs pulled up close together, esp. (of an animal)
in readiness to jump
2 prong a sharply pointed end of an instrument, such as on a fork
‘It is all right now, bwana1!’ he shouted back. ‘I have broken its
back and it cannot travel forward any more! Stand away, bwana! Stand
well away and leave it to me!’
Salimu lifted the rake and jumped away and the snake went
on writhing and twisting but it was quite unable to travel in any direction. The boy went forward and hit it accurately and very hard on the
head with the metal end of the rake and suddenly the snake stopped
moving. Salimu let out a great sigh and passed a hand over his forehead. Then he looked at me and smiled.
‘Asanti, bwana,’ he said, ‘asanti sana,’ which simply means,
‘Thank you, bwana. Thank you very much.’
It isn’t often one gets the chance to save a person’s life. It gave
me a good feeling for the rest of the day, and from then on, every time
I saw Salimu, the good feeling would come back to me.
Dar es Salaam
19 March 1939
Dear Mama,
If a war breaks out you’ve jolly well got to go to Tenby otherwise you’ll be
bombed. Don’t forget, you’ve got to go if war breaks out …
1
bwana a master, often used as a respectful form of address corresponding to sir
Simba
About a month after the black mamba incident, I set out on a safari
upcountry in the old Shell station-wagon with Mdisho and our first
stop was the small town of Bagomoyo1. I mention this only because
the name of the Indian trader I had to go and see in Bagomoyo was so
wonderful I have never been able to get it out of my mind. He was a
tiny little man with an immense low-slung2 protuberant belly of the
kind that women have when they are eight and a half months pregnant, and he carried this great ball in front of him very proudly, as if it
were a special medal or a coat of arms. He called himself Mister
Shankerbai Ganderbai, and across the top of his business notepaper
was printed in red capital letters the full title he had conferred upon
himself, MISTER SHANKERBAI GANDERBAI OF BAGOMOYO, SELLER OF
DECORTICATORS. A decorticator is a huge clanking piece of machinery
that converts the leaves of the sisal plant into fibres for making rope,
and if you wanted to buy one, the man to go and see was Mister
Shankerbai Ganderbai of Bagomoyo.
After three more days of dusty travelling and visiting customers, Mdisho and I came to the town of Tabora. Tabora is some 450
miles inland from Dar es Salaam, and in 1939 it was not much of a
town, just a scattering of houses and a few streets where the Indian
traders had their shops. But because by Tanganyikan standards it
was a sizeable place, it was honoured by the presence of a British
District Officer3.
The District Officers in Tanganyika were a breed I admired.
Admittedly they were sunburnt and sinewy, but they were not
gophers. They were all university graduates with good degrees, and in
their lonely outposts they had to be all things to all men. They were
the judges whose decisions settled both tribal and personal disputes.
They were the advisers to tribal chiefs. They were often the givers of
medicines and the saviours of the sick. They administered their own
vast districts by keeping law and order under the most difficult
circumstances. And wherever there was a District Officer, the Shell
man on safari was welcome to stay the night at his house.
The DO in Tabora was called Robert Sanford, a man in his early
thirties who had a wife and three very small children, a boy of six, a girl
of four and a baby.
That evening I was sitting on the veranda having a sundowner
with Robert Sanford and his wife Mary, while two of the children were
playing out on the grass in front of the house under the watchful eye of
their black nurse. The heat of the day was becoming less intense as the
sun went down, and the first whisky and soda was tasting good.
1
Bagomoyo (also Bagamojo) the original capital of German East Africa; it was one of
the most important trading ports along the East African coast [WIKI]
2 low-slung lower in height than usual or expected
3 District Officer (also DO) head of each District Office, the Government
representative at the district level
‘So what’s been going on in Dar?’ Robert Sanford asked me.
‘Anything exciting?’
I told him about the black mamba and Salimu. When I had
finished, Mary Sanford said, ‘That’s the one thing I’m always frightened of in this country, those beastly snakes.’
‘Damn lucky you happened to see it behind him,’ Robert
Sanford said. ‘He was certain to have been killed.’
‘We had a spitting cobra1 near our back door not long ago,’
Mary Sanford said. ‘Robert shot it.’
The Sanford house was on a hill outside the town. It was a white
wooden two-storey building with a roof of green tiles. The eaves2 of the
house projected far out beyond the walls to provide extra shade, and
this gave the building a sort of Japanese pagoda3 appearance. The
surrounding countryside was to me a very pleasant sight. It was a vast
brown plain with many quite large knolls4 and hummocks5 dotted all
over it, and although the plain itself was mostly burnt-up scrubland6, the
hills were covered with all sorts of huge jungle trees, and their dense
foliage made little emerald-green dots all over the plain. On the burntup plain itself there grew nothing but those bare spiky thorn trees7 that
you find all over East Africa, and there were about six huge vultures8
sitting quite motionless on every thorn tree in sight. The vultures were
brown with curved orange beaks and orange feet, and they spent their
whole lives sitting and watching and waiting for some animal to die so
they could pick its bones.
‘Do you like this sort of life?’ I said to Robert Sanford.
‘I love the freedom,’ he said. ‘I administer about two thousand
square miles of territory and I can go where I want and do more or less
exactly as I please. That part of it is marvellous. But I do miss the
company of other white men. There aren’t many even moderately
intelligent Europeans in the town.’
We sat there watching the sun go down behind the flat brown
plain that was covered with thorn trees, and we could see the sinister
vultures waiting like feathered undertakers for death to come along
and give them something to work on.
‘Keep the children a bit closer to the house!’ Mary Sanford
called out to the nurse. ‘Bring them closer, please!’
1
spitting cobra one of several species of cobras that have the ability to
eject venom from their fangs when defending themselves against predators [WIKI]
2 eave the part of a roof that extends beyond the wall of a building
3 pagoda an Indian or Far Eastern temple, esp. a tower, usually pyramidal and having
many storeys
4 knoll a small rounded hill
5 hummock a small hill or mound
6 scrubland an area of scrub vegetation
7 thorn trees a tree with thorns, such as a hawthorn or acacia tree
8 vultures any of various very large diurnal birds of prey of the genera Neophron,
Gyps, Gypaetus, etc., of Africa, Asia, and warm parts of Europe, typically having
broad wings and soaring flight and feeding on carrion
Robert Sanford said, ‘My mother sent me out Beethoven’s
Third Symphony from England last week. HMV1, two records, four
sides in all, Toscanini conducting. I’m using a thorn needle instead of a
steel one so as not to wear out the grooves. It seems to work.’
‘Don’t you find the records warp2 a lot out here?’ I asked.
‘I keep them lying flat with a pile of books on top of them,’ he
said. ‘What I’m terrified of is dropping one and breaking it.’
The sun had gone down now and a lovely soft light was
spreading over the landscape. I could see a group of zebra grazing
among the thorn trees about half a mile away. Robert Sanford was also
watching the zebras.
‘I keep wondering,’ he said, ‘if it wouldn’t be possible to catch
a young zebra and break it in for riding, just like a horse. After all, they
are only wild horses with stripes on.’
‘Has anyone ever tried?’ I asked.
1
HMV His Master’s Voice, a famous trademark in the music business, and for many
years the name of a large record label
2 to warp to twist or cause to twist out of shape, as from heat, damp, etc.
‘Not that I know,’ he said. ‘Mary’s a good rider. What do you
think, darling? How would you like to have a private zebra to ride on?’
‘It might be fun,’ she said. Even though she had a bit of a jaw,
she was a handsome woman. I didn’t mind the jaw. The shape of it
gave her the look of a fighter.
‘Perhaps we could cross one with a horse,’ Robert Sanford
said, ‘and call it a zorse.’
‘Or a hebra,’ Mary Sanford said.
‘Right,’ her husband said, smiling.
‘Shall we try it?’ Mary Sanford said. ‘It would be rather
splendid to have a baby zorse or hebra. Oh darling, shall we try it?’
‘The children could ride it,’ he said. ‘A black zorse with white
stripes all over it.’
‘Please can we play your Beethoven after supper?’ I said.
‘Absolutely,’ Robert Sanford said. ‘I’ll put the gramophone out
here on the veranda and then those tremendous chords can go
booming out through the night over the plain. It’s terrific. The only
trouble is I have to wind the thing up twice for each side.’
‘I’ll wind it for you,’ I said.
Suddenly, the voice of a man yelling in Swahili exploded into
the quiet of the evening. It was my boy, Mdisho. ‘Bwana! Bwana!
Bwana!’ he was yelling from somewhere behind the house. ‘Simba,
bwana! Simba! Simba!’
Simba is Swahili for lion. All three of us leapt to our feet, and
the next moment Mdisho came tearing round the corner of the house
yelling at us in Swahili, ‘Come quick, bwana! Come quick! Come quick!
A huge lion is eating the wife of the cook!’
That sounds pretty funny when you put it on paper back here
in England, but to us, standing on a veranda in the middle of East
Africa, it was not funny at all.
Robert Sanford flew into the house and came out again in five
seconds flat holding a powerful rifle and ramming a cartridge1 into the
breech2. ‘Get those children indoors!’ he shouted to his wife as he ran
down off the veranda with me behind him.
Mdisho was dancing about and pointing towards the back of
the house and yelling in Swahili, ‘The lion has taken the wife of the
cook and the lion is eating her and the cook is chasing the lion and
trying to save his wife!’
The servants lived in a series of low whitewashed outbuild3
ings at the back of the house, and as we came running round the
corner we saw four or five house-boys leaping about and pointing and
shrieking, ‘Simba! Simba! Simba!’ The boys were all clothed in spotless
white cotton robes that looked like long night-shirts, and each had a
fine scarlet tarboosh on his head. The tarboosh is a sort of top-hat
1
cartridge a cylindrical, usually metal casing containing an explosive charge and
often a bullet, for a rifle or other small arms
2 breech the part of a firearm behind the barrel or bore
3 outbuilding a building subordinate to but separate from a main building, outhouse
without a brim, and there is often a black tassel1 on it. The women had
come out of their huts as well and were standing in a separate group,
silent, immobile and staring.
‘Where is it?’ Robert Sanford shouted, but he had no need to
ask, for we very quickly spotted the massive sandy-coloured lion not
more than eighty or ninety yards off and trotting away from the house.
He had a fine bushy collar of fur around his neck, and in his jaws he
was holding the wife of the cook. The lion had the woman by the waist
so that her head and arms hung down on one side and her legs on the
other, and I could see that she was wearing a red and white spotted
dress. The lion, so startlingly close, was loping2 away from us in the
calmest possible manner with a slow, long-striding, springy lope, and
behind the lion, not more than the length of a tennis court behind, ran
the cook himself in his white cotton robe and with his red hat on his
head, running most bravely and waving his arms like a whirlwind,
leaping, clapping his hands, screaming, shouting, shouting, shouting,
‘Simba! Simba! Simba! Simba! Let go of my wife! Let go of my wife!’
Oh, it was a scene of great tragedy and comedy both mixed up
together, and now Robert Sanford was running full speed after the
cook who was running after the lion. He was holding his rifle in both
hands and shouting to the cook, ‘Pingo! Pingo! Get out of the way,
Pingo! Lie down on the ground so I can shoot the simba! You are in my
way! You are in my way, Pingo!’
But the cook ignored him and kept on running, and the lion
ignored everybody, not altering his pace at all but continuing to lope
along with slow springy strides and with the head held high and carrying the woman proudly in his jaws, rather like a dog who is trotting off
with a good bone.
Both the cook and Robert Sanford were travelling faster than
the lion who really didn’t seem to care about his pursuers at all. And
as for me, I didn’t know what to do to help them so I ran after Robert
Sanford. It was an awkward situation because there was no way that
Robert Sanford could take a shot at the lion without risking a hit on the
cook’s wife, let alone on the cook himself who was still right in his line
of fire.
The lion was heading for one of those hillocks that was densely
covered with jungle trees and we all knew that once he got in there,
we would never be able to get at him. The incredibly brave cook was
actually catching up on the lion and was now not more than ten yards
behind him, and Robert Sanford was thirty or forty yards behind the
cook. ‘Ayee!’ the cook was shouting. ‘Simba! Simba! Simba! Let go my
wife! I am coming after you, simba!’
Then Robert Sanford stopped and raised his rifle and took aim,
and I thought surely he is not risking a shot at a moving lion when it’s
got a woman in its jaws. There was an almighty crack as the big gun
1
tassel a tuft of loose threads secured by a knot or ornamental knob, used to
decorate soft furnishings, clothes, etc.
2 to lope (of four-legged animals) to run with a regular bounding movement
went off and I saw a spurt of dust just ahead of the lion. The lion
stopped dead and turned his head, still holding the woman in his jaws.
He saw the arm-waving shouting cook and he saw Robert Sanford and
he saw me and he had certainly heard the rifle shot and seen the spurt
of dust. He must have thought an army was coming after him because
instantaneously he dropped the cook’s wife on to the ground and
broke for cover1. I have never seen anything accelerate so fast from a
standing start. With great leaping bounding strides he was in among
the jungle trees on the hillock before Robert Sanford could ram
another cartridge into his gun.
The cook reached the wife first, then Robert Sanford, then me.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. I was certain that the grip of those
terrible jaws would have ripped the woman’s waist and stomach
almost in two, but there she was sitting up on the ground and smiling
at the cook, her husband.
‘Where are you hurt?’ shouted Robert Sanford, rushing up.
The cook’s wife looked up at him and kept smiling, and she
said in Swahili, ‘That old lion he couldn’t scare me. I just lay there in his
mouth pretending I was dead and he didn’t even bite through my
clothes.’ She stood up and smoothed down her red and white spotted
dress which was wet with the lion’s saliva, and the cook embraced her
and the two of them did a little dance of joy in the twilight out there
on the great brown African plain.
Robert Sanford just stood there gaping at the cook’s wife. So,
for that matter, did I.
‘Are you absolutely sure the simba didn’t hurt you?’ he asked
her. ‘Did not his teeth go into your body?’
‘No, bwana,’ the woman said, laughing. ‘He carried me as
gently as if I had been one of his own cubs2. But now I shall have to
wash my dress.’
We walked slowly back to the group of astonished onlookers.
‘Tonight’, Robert Sanford said, addressing them all, ‘nobody is to go far
from the house, you understand me?’
‘Yes, bwana,’ they said. ‘Yes, yes, we understand you.’
‘That old simba is hiding over there in the wood and he may
come back,’ Robert Sanford said. ‘So be very careful. And Pingo, please
continue to cook our dinner. I am getting hungry.’
The cook ran into the kitchen, clapping his hands and leaping
for joy. We walked over to where Mary Sanford was standing. She had
come round to the back of the house soon after us and had witnessed
the whole scene. The three of us then returned to the veranda and
fresh drinks were poured.
1
2
to break for cover to burst forth towards a protecting concealment
cub the young of certain animals, such as the lion, bear, etc.
Dar es Salaam
5 June 1939
Dear Mama,
It’s pleasant lying back and listening to and at the same time watching the
antics of Hitler and Mussolini who are invariably on the ceiling catching flys1
and mosquitoes. Hitler & Mussolini are 2 lizards which live in our sitting room.
They’re always here, and apart from being very useful about the house they
are exciting to watch. You can see Hitler (who is smaller than Musso and not
so fat) fixing his unfortunate victim – often a small moth – with a very hypnotic
eye. The moth2, terrified, stays stock still, then suddenly, so quickly that you
can hardly see the movement at all, he darts his neck forward, shoots out a
long tongue, and that’s the end of the moth. They’re quite small only about 10
inches long, and they’ve taken on the colour of the walls & ceiling which are
yellow & become quite transparent. You can see their appendixes, at least we
think we can …
‘I don’t believe anything like this has ever happened before,’
Robert Sanford said as he sat down once again in his cane armchair.
There was a little round slot in one of the arms of the chair to carry his
glass and he put the whisky and soda carefully into it. ‘In the first
place,’ he went on, ‘lions do not attack people around here unless you
go near their cubs. They can get all the food they want. There’s plenty
of game on the plain.’
‘Perhaps he’s got a family in that patch of wood on the hill,’
Mary Sanford said.
‘That could be,’ Robert Sanford said. ‘But if he had thought the
woman was threatening his family, he would have killed her on the
spot. Instead of that, he carries her off as soft and gentle as a good
gun-dog with a partridge3. If you want my opinion, I do not believe he
ever meant to hurt her.’
We sat there sipping our drinks and trying to find some sort of
an explanation for the astonishing behaviour of the lion.
‘Normally,’ Robert Sanford said, ‘I would get together a bunch
of hunters first thing tomorrow morning and we’d flush out that old
lion and kill him. But I don’t want to do it. He doesn’t deserve it. In fact,
I’m not going to do it.’
‘Good for you, darling,’ his wife said.
The story of this strange happening with the lion spread in the
end all over East Africa and it became a bit of a legend. And when I got
back to Dar es Salaam about two weeks later, there was a letter
waiting for me from the East African Standard (I think it was called) up
in Nairobi asking if I would write my own eye-witness description of
1
flys flies
moth Fr. papillon de nuit
3 partridge any of various small Old World gallinaceous game birds (Fr. perdrix)
2
the incident. This I did and in time I received a cheque for five pounds
from the newspaper for my first published work.
There followed a long correspondence in the columns of the
paper from the white hunters and other experts all over Uganda,
Kenya and Tanganyika, each offering his or her different and often
bizarre explanation. But none of them made any sense. The matter has
remained a mystery ever since.
Gordimer, Nadine “Karma” (2003)1 [excerpts]
‘Karma ... 1) The sum and the consequences of a person’s actions
during the successive phases of his existence, regarded as determining
his destiny. 2) Fate, destiny. Sanskrit karman (nominative karma), act,
deed, work, from karoti, he makes. He does.’
THE AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH
LANGUAGE
1
Text based on: Gordimer, Nadine. 2003. Loot and Other Stories. New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux. (Excerpts: 151, 176-191, 203-233.)
Many thanks are due to Eléonore de Broux, whose TFE (2010-2011) provided the
basis for the present edition.
Several glosses have been borrowed from the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary,
the Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary and Wikipedia.
Gordimer “Karma” (2)
‘... sooner or later every action brings its retribution, in this existence
or in one to come.’ 1
Can you believe such a thing. Dump a baby in a toilet. Well it was the
church toilet, whoever did it that Sunday knew when we brethren2
came to morning service we’d hear the crying. No-one could get hold
of Welfare3 on a Sunday and the police – we know our police boys,
they’re our own sons or other relatives in our township4, what’d they
know about looking after a baby couldn’t have been more than two
weeks old! So Abraham and I took it home, just for the day, we don’t
have kids of our own and other brethren have the house full with
them.
A girl. Pretty little thing. Had no hair yet just a bit of fine fluff,
so what’s the easiest thing you can tell whether a baby is one of us,
tight, curly, wasn’t there. Except for hair, most of our babies could be
whites when they’re born, they’re very light-coloured, the white in us
only gets taken over by the black as they get older. The noses usually
aren’t flatter than all babies have, and if the eyes are green – our
grandfathers, great-grandfathers all the way back were Malay, Indian,
Bushmen, real blacks, whites, you name it, and somehow from the
mixture many of us have green eyes, like whites. By the time the
Welfare made up their minds about which orphanage to get her into
we’d ... well, no kids of our own, we’d got fond of her, our life was
different not just the two of us like before, Abraham had a good steady
job with his Jewish boss at the shoe factory, I didn’t really need to go
out to work. So we kept her. We named her a lovely name, Denise, and
gave her our name. She was christened in our Seventh Day Adventist
church by our minister. It was only about the time she began to be
steady on her feet and begin to walk that there was no doubt about it;
she was a white kid. The reason why her hair was so fine and slow to
cover was that she was going to be very blond. The green eyes didn’t
help; this kid was white. You do get throwbacks5 among us that can
pass for white, but she was the real thing. Everybody saw it, all the
neighbours and Abraham’s and my aunties, uncles, cousins – and
looked from the kid to us, saying nothing but thinking, we knew, what
were we going to do, later? For school. The children played with her
as if she was the same as them; children learn the names for
difference, from us, what did apartheid mean to them: just another
grown-ups’ word. The local nursery school, run by our church with
1
National Geographic (3fI/32), quoted by Ruth White, Karma & Reincarnation
(Weiser Books, 2001) [Author’s note]
2 brethren brothers (used as a form of address to members of a religious group)
3 Welfare help given, especially by the state or an organization, to people who need
it, especially because they do not have enough money
4 township a town or part of a town that black people had to live in, and where only
black people lived
5 throwbacks people that show characteristics of an earlier type
charity grants1, was no problem. All shades of our skins passed, there,
some were blacker than it was meant for, slipped in by parents from
the nearby black township through family or church connections with
our people; if one tot2 was whiter than she should be, who was going
to ask questions.
But when the time came for real school, Government school,
we had to make up our minds, Abraham and I. To be white in
apartheid days was to be – everything. Everything! From, you know,
sitting on a bench waiting for a bus, to getting a job in a bank, renting
a flat, owning a house, qualifying in a trade, getting a good education
– all these came to you, just like that, if you were white, all these were
closed to you if you were some other colour. We had to decide
whether our little girl – because who else’s was she, she called us
Mama and Daddy – should grow up to be one of us, our own people,
here in the places and jobs, the lives the whites decide for us, or
whether we owed it to her to try for white. And that’s not the right
way to put it, either, because that means you’re not white but may
be able to pass, and our girl was white. Easy to be accepted by our
kind because what are we? Such a stew-pot most of us don’t even
know, from way back, what’s made us whatever we are, our family
names are only clues, Dutch, English, German, Jewish, Malay-Muslim,
some of this is even hidden behind family names taken which are just
names of months – September, February, that’s two families in this
street where Abraham and I took in what is called a foundling who
had no name at all.
We decided to try to put her in a white school. That meant
Government school was out. Government schools were separated:
blacks at black schools, us coloureds at coloured schools, whites at
white schools. Our child, living in our place, would have to go to the
local school for our kind. But there were private schools we heard
about. A convent school. We were Seventh Day Adventists, no whites
or blacks in our local church, but people said the nuns had some
arrangement, they took in a few black or coloured children if the
parents could pay. But the convent refused her, the vacancies for
exceptions were full, and then when we tried a private Anglican
school, although the headmistress who interviewed us with our child
looked at her curiously and kind of sadly, she wasn’t given a place
there, either. The headmistress said that, even with us paying, the
school couldn’t afford to take our child because for coloured or black
children the Government supplied no subsidy as it did for other
private pupils.
Denise Appolis attended primary and high schools in a coloured
township outside the city and suburbs, like the townships and schools
1
grants sums of money given especially by the government to a person or
organization for a special purpose
2 tot a young child
designated for blacks and for Indians, and matriculated1 as head
prefect2 with three distinctions, in English, Afrikaans (the language
spoken in her home) and history. Abraham and Elsie Appolis were
unsurprised and proud of her. There had grown up in them, as she
grew up, the unspoken shared sense that because she was not their
biological creation, she had not been made in their bed, she was
somehow chosen. Not alone in the sense that they had taken her for
a day and kept her; chosen for a different life, other than theirs. A life
of fulfilment they thought of as happiness. Had they, then, not been
happy? Yes, in their way, the way open to them. Happiness as being
white: no boundaries! God’s will.
Now it was possible for her to be what she was: white. The
private business schools in the city were given as her home address
that of Abraham’s white Jewish boss (appropriated, with or without
consent?) when Abraham and Elsie sent her for application
unaccompanied by their presence and obvious place in the official
race classification. She carried a letter of parental authority written
carefully in English (corrected by the girl who had gained Distinction
in that subject), and proof of the parents’ ability to pay fees, in details
of their savings bank account. There she was, a white seventeen-yearold among other young white men and women. She evidently made
no friends but concentrated on her computer and general secretarial
courses and every day came home by way of one of the roving3
minibuses in the city, back to the township, her friends there. Just as
well she was the quiet one who kept to herself at the business college,
she didn’t bring any fellow student home; Abraham and Elsie never
brought up the subject, neither did she offer any explanation.
It seemed she understood what their love was doing for her.
You couldn’t grow up in that township without becoming aware that
it was best to be white, if by some good fortune you had the chance
to take. God’s will. When her courses were – successfully – completed
she and the parents studied together the situations vacant advertised
in the morning and evening papers; for the first time in his life
Abraham brought home both (TV was the source of news for what was
happening in the world, for him) from his boss’s office, with the
permission and kindly interest of his Jewish employer. After all, they
were family men of around the same age; there was the joking: –
You’re not going down those pages because you’re walking out on
me? – – No, no ... it’s my daughter, just come through business
college. –
Denise wrote her own confident letters of application, now
giving the post office box number of her father’s workplace for
convenient reply. She read the format out to the parents for approval,
and was granted several interviews in favourable response. With her
1
matriculated officially became a student at a university
prefect an older student with some authority over younger students and some
other responsibilities and advantages
3 roving travelling from place to place
2
very first job she could choose! Their Denise! Again the three
conferred1, Denise and the parents; Abraham knew something of the
business world, even if he was only a factory foreman2. She made the
right choice: a trainee in a bank. All personnel white like her. Her
starting salary was low, but enough for their girl to clothe herself, pay
for daily minibus transport, enjoy a little independence, and it meant
Elsie didn’t have to take care of an old white lady anymore – work
she’d found to help pay the business school fees. But it appeared that
their girl had made one friend during the business school courses,
after all. Denise’s appointment at the bank was to begin on the first
day of the coming month, two weeks ahead; she was having a holiday,
a reward she deserved after her success in her courses, helping Elsie
at home to make new curtains and riding into the city quite often to
see the friend. She even spent a night at the friend’s family house,
there was a party. In the white suburbs, they were, house and party,
of course.
Abraham found the words after he and Elsie were in the dark
in bed. – D’you think she’s told this friend. – – Told what. – As if there
was nothing that would come out, nothing to explain. – Who she is.
Us. Here. – – Must have. Otherwise what’d the friend think of never
being invited back. Here. –
There was no resentment or hurt in the fact that their girl did
not bring her friend home to them. Other play-whites3 did so, they
knew, with genuinely trusted white pals, in particular that band of
whites, Communists, Lefties, Liberals of one kind or another who
wanted to prove themselves against the race laws. But their girl was
not a play-white. She was fully entitled to be at those parties in the
suburbs, sleeping over in a white’s house. They knew and their girl
knew what they wanted for her and she should claim for herself in
order to fulfil that want.
Yet when she told them, she and her girlfriend had found a
bachelor flat in the city they could afford and would be moving in
together – it was the home address she’d given to the bank – they felt
something suddenly fallen away from them. Under the very ground
they themselves had prepared. That feeling, in their hanging hands, on
their faces: it was so – so what? Unreasonable. Shaming. Silly. What
on earth was the matter with them, you Abraham (her look), you
mama Elsie (his look)? This was the next, the right and vital step in
moving out of the cramped4 life they had and into the life that had
everything. For her to leave them was the natural process of their act
of love for her. Freed.
The friend Angela had found a job in an attorney’s office near
the bank, the housing arrangement was convenient for both and they
1
conferred talked
foreman a worker who is in charge of a group of other factory workers (Fr. contremaître)
3 play-whites people pretending to be white, whereas they are not
4 cramped not having enough space or time
2
got along well together. Abraham and Elsie drew some of their small
savings to help Denise buy a refrigerator and her share of the basic
furniture needed. They were taken to see the flat and met the girl
Angela; it was clear she knew what to expect and was friendly and
respectful in the normal way of young adults meeting someone’s
parents. So this girl Angela was in the compact1 as well. They never
visited the flat again; but Denise came home – must still be home, a
flat that’s passed from occupant to occupant, marks on the walls not
your own, can’t be home – she came to them often. Nearly every
Sunday, Christmas and birthdays, theirs and hers (calculated as the
Sunday she was found in the church toilet), sometimes sleeping the
night in her old bed. Such a good girl. Others with her circumstances
would have disappeared, disowned them. And that they would have
understood as the final act, in their love. God’s will. If he allowed the
laws – laws that made it necessary – to be the acts of people who
prayed obedient to him in their whites’ churches. This was a proviso2
that Abraham, growing older, had but would not pass on to Elsie,
wounding her with his lapse of faith. Oddly, if there was anyone he
might have conveyed it to it could have been his Jewish boss, he’d
been working at the factory for more than twenty-five years and it was
to himself, the foreman, that the boss one day confided he hadn’t
been away ill for a week, his absence was because he had been taking
his wife back and forth to doctors for tests that showed she had
cancer.
A foundling. Who was this girl they decided was Denise? A
chosen one, having no provenance, she could make for herself two
lives, one where she was cradled and loved and learnt to talk,
communicate in the intimate taal of a designated township, learnt to
walk – walk out into the second, other life: everything.
Denise and her flatmate had boyfriends. Angela, many. The weekends
when Abraham-and-Elsie’s girl was home with them, the current chap
could come and make love to Angela in the flat. She never let on – that
was the phrase her best friend could be assured of – where that
conveniently absent best friend was. Denise, after a few trials that
didn’t get as far as bed, had only one boyfriend. When she knew
Angela would be out for a late night, they could go to bed in the room
she shared with Angela; their turn to make love. They had met at a
party, the customary first stage in the white middle-class ritual of
mating3 choices – the birthday of one of the other girls who worked in
the bank. He was a technician with a company selling and servicing
television sets; a young man from the lower end of that class, his father a retired post-master. Afrikaans was the home language but the
mother was of English-speaking origin, so he was fluent in both, and
1
compact a formal agreement between two or more people
proviso a condition that must be accepted before an agreement can be made
3 mating choosing a partner
2
attractively intelligent. A bee scenting something in her pollen: he lent
books to his girl; they were there beside her bed when he wasn’t and
Angela was sleeping off wine and a wild night. They were novels and
travel books. He was saving for a trip overseas, he knew what he
wanted to see in his life, London, Paris, Rome. And Venice, she would
add; one of the books described the Piazza San Marco, and the
gondolas. Who, of either of them, could have said what decided they
would marry – the love-making in her bed, the freedom beyond that
she had gained for herself, the freedom he was aware of, the world
outside the country, the city of a bank and a television sales shop?
These were the components of falling in love; marriage was the accepted social means of protecting this and giving it permanence with
an official license and vows in a church.
There the usual, simple progression of the mating ritual was
neither usual nor simple. Denise had told Mike – not who she was
because she didn’t, couldn’t know – who her Mama and Daddy were,
and taken him back over the line she had crossed under their loving
guidance, to meet them. He spoke Afrikaans with Abraham and Elsie,
a common language brings ease, it didn’t matter that the young white
man was in a Coloured township, a Coloured home for the first time (a
kind of foreign travel). Being in love is a state of the continuous
present, the now; he was living only in the context of his girl’s eyes and
breasts and sweet thrilling entry to her body. This unfamiliar,
forbidden separate place of colour she had been nurtured in was of no
account to him; all that he had been nurtured to believe about the
taint of contact with those of a different tint was irrelevant: being in
love converted him from milk-imbibed racism1, weaned2 him at a
single encounter. And, of course, the fact was that his girl was not
theirs, Abraham’s and Elsie’s, she was white – he knew better than
anyone how white in all the physical characteristics cited by those
claiming these as superior to the characteristics of all others in the
official racial categories laid down by law and followed by the church.
To record that Abraham and Elsie were overjoyed at a coming
marriage of the girl who had been their Denise to a good young white
man with a steady job (his own family speaking Afrikaans – a kind of
link even though there probably wouldn’t be the usual parents-in-law
one) would be to understate the solemnity of that joy. First they had
let her go; now the foundling had been found by one of her own kind.
Everything: it was about to be achieved with this marriage.
He had to explain to his girl that her introduction to his
parents might not be without certain problems. She looked at him as
if he’d had a sudden lapse of memory. She’d been taken to their home
several times, first fruit juice and beer on the verandah, where the
mother talked to her about what it was like to work in a bank and the
father talked to his son about soccer, then to lunch on a public holiday,
1
2
milk-imbibed racism racism that has been inculcated since birth
weaned Fr. sevrer
and once to share the evening meal. – But that was before they knew
– about you, I mean. I’d never thought it necessary to tell them about
my girlfriends’ families and so on. What interest to them. Nothing to
do with their lives. Now when I say we’re getting married, I’m
marrying this girl, I’ll have to tell them about you. –
– Of course. – But she had not thought of this before: love is
in the present, it’s her hand slipping beneath his shirt to his chest, it’s
reading together descriptions of the places in the world maybe they’ll
save up to see. She did not say: they know I’m white. As if he heard the
thought: – I know ... But that you grew up there, school and home,
people who are like – your parents, to you. – He came over in her
silence and kissed her; he had no part in the problem his parents might
represent.
He came back with the news, angry, the skin over his cheekbones taut1 and flushed. – They’re terrible. I don’t even want to tell
you about it. I’m degrading never mind myself, them, my sister, her
kids. The country. Beautiful South Africa 1975. It doesn’t matter to
them that you’re white. You were brought up among Coloureds, the
family – which I’ve explained over and over again you haven’t really
got although you love them – is Coloured. You’d think colour is
something you can catch just by being among people. Infection, it’s a
disease. – His car was piled with a thrown-in muddle of clothes, shoes,
books, soccer helmet, music cassettes. He left home and moved in
with a friend. In servants’ quarters converted to a cottage rented in
someone’s garden he had a room to himself where she could comfort
him with love-making; she knew something of what it was like to leave
behind you those who had been your parents.
They had each other, in love. They would get married. Sooner,
now, an act of confirmation, even of defiance, as well as love. But if he
was angry before, he was stricken, transformed by disbelief when he
came back from the marriage licence office to tell her that the licence
was not, could not be issued. There would have to be a birth certificate
to prove she was white; he could give his date and place of birth, the
names of his parents. She had no birth certificate and no place except
a church toilet, and her adoptive parents had registered her in their
name and residence as Coloureds in a duly designated township.
Denise Appolis was a Coloured female. The Mixed Marriages Act2
forbade marriage between them. Even their love-making was
clandestine contravention of the law.
The television technician had never needed a lawyer, he was
an ordinary law-abiding3 young man who wanted to marry in the usual
progression of life, and, white and sure of his own, he had never taken
any part in organisations concerned with human rights but
remembered reading in newspapers of a legal aid resource that
1
taut tight or completely stretched
Mixed Marriages Act an apartheid law in South Africa prohibiting marriages
between people of different races
3 law-abiding obeying and respecting the law
2
offered help in such matters. There he was received by a rumpled1,
well-rounded woman lawyer who ran her hands up through her hair
as if they were going over a story she’d heard in various versions many
times. – I know, I know it’s an awful prospect, but your ‘intended’ will
have to go before the Population Registrar2. We’ll make an application
for her to be reclassified. White. Don’t think I’m doubting you in any
way, but I must meet her, first. –
– You’ll see for yourself. Whoever they are can’t have any
doubts. –
– The parentage questions – habitation, childhood – complicates things, even if the physical appearance seems to fit by their
invented genetic standards ... –
When there is trouble you take your shock home to those to whom
you went with the hurt of grazed3 knees.
She took him with her to Mama and Daddy, Abraham and
Elsie, there she was able to give way to tears and they wept with her,
hugged the young white man who hadn’t given her up but become
confined, as they had been all their lives, in one of those cages of the
law that made people species of exotic animals: he must understand
– yes – he’s in the whites’ cage. And she, their girl? If the lawyer knows
the procedure, everyone in the township knows how you must present
yourself before it. Everywhere, close, there are families to whom
nature – God’s will – has produced one of a brood4 who could play for
white, Abraham and Elsie could call in all manner of advice from
friends, relatives, expert in their ways; lore5 unknown to any lawyer.
Without papers, registered Coloured, the girl must present herself, to
that bastard looking her over, as if the girl really is a play-white who
must disguise herself. He’ll only be convinced, by his model of a real
white girl, if she gets herself up in the right way that they know, from
experience, will succeed. She looks too – what’s it – lady-like. He’ll find
it fishy. He’s not used to that. He’s used to letting pass – all right, got
to make a few who do, just to show the law is good – the special kind
of looks, it’s like they’re on a rubber stamp ready to his hand, he
recognises as properly faked. How she must dress and make up –
that’s important. Really white, you must look; she and her boyfriend
go swimming a lot, she’s rosily-dark sunburned.
Who knew better than the aunties, cousins, neighbours how
to deal with the law’s servants, those white ‘civil servants’ that decided your life for you. On the day she and her future husband met the
lawyer at the office of the Population Registrar she was heavily
plastered with chalky makeup, as if she truly had mixed blood to
1
rumpled untidy
Registrar a person whose job is to keep officials records, especially of births,
marriages and deaths
3 grazed the surface of the skin broken by rubbing against something rough
4 brood a group of young birds all born at the same time
5 lore the stories and traditions of a particular group of people
2
conceal, her hair, which lately she had followed the craze of the girls
at the bank to have cooked into a rippling1 Afro, was tortured even
straighter, her blondness bleached even blonder, than these were
naturally.
The lawyer from Legal Aid was appalled. She left the future
husband standing in a corridor and rushed the girl to the women’s
toilet where, totally concentrated, exasperatedly wordless, she
scrubbed the face with paper tissues from her briefcase and drew
palms-full of liquid soap from a dispenser to finish the job. The clean
shining face of a tanned white girl, pink around the nostrils, emerged
and it was in this naked aspect that the foundling applicant entered
the official’s office accompanied by the woman lawyer. The future
husband left behind the door: he could make out the voice but not the
words of the lawyer explicating her client’s claim. His lips moved on
the words he would have used. And he would also have said what
surely couldn’t be denied by any Registrar, I love her, isn’t there a right
to love.
His girl and the lawyer were on the other side of the door a
long time. He did not allow himself to look at his watch as if the hour
might be an omen; good or bad. He could scarcely catch his girl’s low
voice and an indifferent-sounding growl of the official’s questions was
infrequent, impossible to follow.
They came out and the door closed on a moment when he saw
the official with his chin pressed into a swag of flesh2 as he bent over
papers on a desk. She was looking straight in front of her, not at him.
The woman lawyer was slowly wagging her head, lips tight. Absence
of documentation, the applicant’s answers to where her parents lived,
who they were, what school she was admitted to, recognised as a
Coloured among Coloureds all her childhood – these criteria have
decided that her classification cannot be changed to white.
Application refused. Sorry. That was what the half-audible growl had
been decreeing3.
They wandered out into the forest of city in which they were
abandoned strangers. The lawyer was guiding them, at their backs. –
Let’s go to my office and have some coffee. – What could she have to
say to them there? Application for reclassification refused.
They don’t know, but she receives in never-silenced memory
her echo of what they are feeling; as a child, a life ago, in a German
town called Dortmund she was turned away from school with a yellow
star stuck to her dress. – Look, I have experience with these people. –
A note taken of the afterthought: ‘Sorry’. – I’m going to see him
tomorrow. –
Mr van Rensburg was amiable: you again. Rose from his chair,
both sat down. Across the desk from one another, a level of
1
rippling moving in very small waves
a swag of flesh (here) Fr. double-menton
3 decreeing officially stating that something must happen
2
understanding confidentially, professionally assumed. You know, I
know. The girl is white. Years ago some other white girl dumped an
unwanted infant on church premises. – A church for Coloureds, ja. – –
Yes. But in those days, you’ll remember, there was a poor whites’ area
only a few yards away across the veld. If it’d been a whites’ church,
the mother might have been discovered. –
And now he released himself to the assumed level of understanding. – Look. Ag, she’s white, can’t I see it for myself. Of course.
Anyone can see it. A nice young man wants to marry her. Jesus, I see
what she is. But it’s the law it’s my job. She can perhaps apply again. If
you can dig up something from the orphanage or church or whatever
she was found. Sorry. –
They’re saving up now. Not to see the Tower of London, the Champs
Élysées, Piazza San Marco in Venice, but to go away, for good. That’s
how they describe leaving a home they can’t have.
Perhaps they’ve come back since all the laws that decided who she
was, who he was, have gone, as the politicians and newspapers like to
put it, into the dustbin, the rotten eggshells and beer cans, of history.
Years ago now, by the time that is measured when you’re in bodily
manifestation. The names of those heroes who made the laws have
even been taken off street signs and airports.
I must have been released from her – she must have died,
somehow, young: you don’t always keep, know, the moment when
you were recalled; how it ended. But of all my Returns that one was
unique, there never was anything like it! Because, each time, you are
one manifestation, sent back to live out one life. But that Return was
in itself two, I had come back twice over in the same enclosure within
space that is a planet.
Denise – my pretty name they gave me because I didn’t have
one. I’m thinking in the taal; I was so happy among the other kids in
the township, our own place, my Mama and Daddy giving me my
Barbie doll and all her outfits, even a pearl necklace that broke and
Mama threaded again, the prizes I got, top girl in class, the Sundays
when the aunties and uncles and cousins came, we kids ran races,
turned cartwheels, and stuffed ourselves with sweets and cold drinks.
The time when I had grown breasts, still not full like Mama’s but quite
nice, and Terry held them and sucked the nipple and put his finger in
my hole at the donga1 we kids roofed over with branches as our
headquarters in the veld. His name was Tertius, teacher told us it
means number three, but he was first-born, we used to tease him, his
parents were stupid. I was in junior choir at our church, with Mama in
the ladies’ choir. Daddy – oh he had me with him so many times, we
went to watch dirt-track racing2, very exciting, and when there was a
1
2
donga a deep channel in the ground that is formed by the action of water
dirt-track racing a type of auto racing performed on oval tracks
fun fair set up in our township and a circus he bought tickets for us for
the rides and the seats. He held my hand when I was scared that the
lion was going to bite the tamer. When I was little I used to climb into
their big bed between them and cuddle on Sunday mornings, and
when I grew bigger and didn’t anymore they didn’t know about Terry
and the headquarters we kids had.
Then – without a death yet, without the proper end – that
Return ended. There was Miss Denise Appolis, trainee at the bank.
Now it comes to me in English. I live in a flat in the city with another
girl. We’re white – well of course, what else could we be? What a
question. Like other people who work in the bank or the attorney’s
office where my friend is also some sort of trainee. We try out different
hairstyles together, have boyfriends we mock and laugh about when
we’re alone, we go to parties. But sometimes this Denise Appolis who
I am goes, crosses from one self to another, to a place and people,
feelings towards these people, that should belong to another Return
entirely. So I don’t know what happened to the force that sends me
back, again and again, but never as the same being, even if, rarely, I do
have a recognition that must come from another life. How can there
be two in one Return?
There are no answers.
There is no answer. Only that you have to go back, in whatever
form, again and again.
Perhaps there are things people on the planet decree upon
one another that would explain this freak Return that once happened.
‘it turns out that something that never was and never will be is all that
we have.’1
For so long – well, the ten years we’ve been together – we’ve had
everything we wanted. Not some gift from the gods or nice middleclass family inheritance, but in the independent making of our own
lives. Karen is overseas investment advisor of the most successful
group of brokers in the city. I had a history of having been an activist.
That cliché means I was part of actions against the old regime, now put
away mummified if not exactly returned to dust, that got me teargassed and beaten-up and once detained – another cliché, this one for
a spell inside without trial. But I am a lawyer who nevertheless
managed to get herself accepted, in a renewed country, as fresh blood
and a woman, by one of the most prestigious old legal practices. So
that’s the career side of it.
As women who’ve wanted and had only women lovers since
youthful attempts with men, we know we were lucky – extraordinarily
blessed – to find one another. Even straight people (as they think of
themselves) prove how rare the right relationship is: divorces,
remarriages, quarrels over child custody – anyway, that’s the mess
we’ve freed ourselves of, in what’s called our sexual preference. Which
has been and is open, since the law now accepts its existence as
legitimate and we both have the confidence of our recognised career
capabilities and loving sexual partnership (the straight couples
enviously see how fulfilling it is) to ignore any relics of old prejudice
that turn up in long-faced disapproval. We find the society of our own
kind naturally compatible, with the usual rivalries, of course,
haphazard sexual attractions that complicate and trouble, not too
seriously, everyone’s social life, golf club or gay bar. But we also have
heterosexual friendships, particularly those coming about through our
different professional connections, and we don’t mind obliging as the
female dinner-partners of visiting overseas businessmen or other
dignitaries who have arrived without spouses. Karen is something of a
beauty with the added advantage or disadvantage of being younger
than I am, and she sometimes is pursued by one of these men-ofpassage after the occasion2, and I suppose I must admit that it pleases,
rouses me to know that my lover appeals to someone who can’t have
her, whom she would reject. With the funny little pursed-up, halfderisive, half-flattered face she makes as we look the man over in
retrospect.
We bought a house two years after we met, and one of ours,
an architect friend, renovated it to create exactly what we think our
1
Amos Oz, The Same Sea, trans. Nicholas de Lange and the author (Harcourt, 1999)
[Author’s note]
2 men-of-passage looking after the occasion travelling men who are looking for a
relation
place ought to be. The mixed-media paintings and the one or two
sculptures (we like wood and can’t stand the pretension of objets
trouvés) are the work of other artist friends. Our collection and our
travels together are what we enjoy spending our money on. We’ve
seen a good part of the world (four eyes better than two), the Great
Wall, the Barrier Reef, New York – Chicago – West Coast, Kyoto,
Scottish Highlands, Florence – Rome – Paris – and there’ll be a lot
more to come, but it’s always with an emotional dissolve of pleasure,
arms going about each other, that we find our two selves back –
home. I’ve had the impression that straights1 don’t believe such a
concept should exist, with us. Because we don’t deserve it, eh.
Some time last year something surprising – yes, happened.
Not to us; but came from us. Not surprising, though, that it occurred
at the same time in both, as our emotions, concepts, opinions and
tastes are non-biological identical twins. For instance, I don’t know
whether, talking with others, we’re heard to say ‘l’ instead of ‘we’. The
totally unexpected thing – if that’s what surprise is – is that this one
was, well, biological. How else could you term it. We wanted to have a
child. I’m sure – and I use the singular personal pronoun for once
because we never actually expressed this, I’m observing from some
imagined outside – we were aware that the desire was like the
remnant of a tail, the coccyx2, vestigial not of our human origin as
primates but of the family organism we have evolved beyond. But freedom means you go out to get what you want, even if it seems its own
contradiction. Reject the elements of family and take one of them to
create a new form of relationship.
We have a home to offer, no question about that, vis-à-vis the
basic needs of a child. It’s the first consideration an agency would take
account of: this easily, informally beautiful place and space we’ve
created. But adoption is not what we want: we’re talking of our own
child. This means one of us must bear it, because what one is the
agency of becomes the possession of both.
Late at night, accompanied by the crickets out on the terrace,
later still, in our bed, her arm under my head or mine under hers, we
consider how we’re going to go about this extraordinary decision that
seems to have been made for us, not at all like the sort of mutual
decision, say, to go to the Galápagos next summer instead of Spain.
There’s no question of who will grow the child inside her body. Karen
is eight years younger than I am. But at thirty-six she has doubts of
whether she can conceive. – How do I know? I’ve never been pregnant.
– We laughed so much I had to kiss her to put a stop to it. She hasn’t
had a man since at eighteen in her first year at university her virginity
was disposed of, luckily without issue, by a fellow student in the back
of his car. – I think there are tests you can have to see if you’re fertile.
We’ll find a gynaecologist. None of her business why you want to
1
2
straights heterosexual people
coccyx the small bone at the bottom of the spine
know. –
That was simple. She’s fertile, all right, though the doctor did
make some remark about the just possible difficulties – did she say
complications, Karen doesn’t remember – for (what did she call her) a
primapara1 at thirty-six, and the infant. There’s always a caesarean –
but I don’t want Karen cut up. – I’ll have a natural birth, I’ll do all the
exercises and get into the right frame of mind these prenatal places
teach. – And so we know, I know now; she’s going to have an
experience I won’t have, she’s accepted that; we’ve accepted that,
yes.
But then comes the real question we’ve been avoiding. This is
a situation, brought upon by ourselves indeed, where you can’t do
without a man. Not yet; science is busy with other ways to fertilise the
egg with some genetically-programmed artificial invader, but it’s not
quite achieved.
The conception.
We think about that final decision, silently and aloud. The
decision to make life, that’s it, no evasion of the fact.
– There’s – well. One of the men we know. –
What does Karen mean. I looked at her, a stare to read her. I
can’t bear the idea of a man entering Karen’s body. Depositing
something there in the tender secret passage I enter in my own ways.
Surely Karen can’t bear it either. Unfaithful and with a man.
Karen is blatantly2 practical. I should be ashamed to doubt her
for an instant. – Of course he could produce his own sperm. –
– Milk himself. –
– I don’t know – a doctor’s rooms, a lab, and then it would be
like an ordinary injection, for me. Almost. –
– Someone who’d do it for us. We’d have to look for ... choose
one healthy, good-looking, not neurotic. Do we know anyone among
our male friends who’s all three? –
And again we’re laughing. I have a suggestion, Karen comes
up with another, even less suitable candidate. It’s amazing, when
you’re free to make a life decision without copulation, what power this
is! You can laugh and ponder3 seriously, at the same time.
– We’re assuming that if we select whoever-it-is he’s going to
agree, just like that. –
I didn’t know the answer.
– Why should he? –
Karen’s insistence brought to mind something going far beyond the obliging male’s compliance (we could both think, finally, that
there would be one or two among our male friends or acquaintances
who might be intrigued by the idea). What if the child turned out to
look like him. More than a resemblance, more than just common
1
primapara a woman who is pregnant for the first time
blatantly flagrantly
3 ponder consider
2
maleness if it were to be a boy, more than something recognisably
akin to1 the donator of the sperm, if a girl. And further, further –
– Oh my god. If the child looks like him – even if it doesn’t –
he gets it into his head to claim it. He wants, what’s the legal term you
use in divorce cases, you know it – access. He wants to turn up every
Sunday to have his share, taking the child to the zoo. –
We went for long walks, we went to the theatre and to the bar
where we girls gather, all the time with an attention deep under our
attention to where we and what we were hearing, saying. Conception.
How to make this life for ourselves.
After a week, days clearing of thinning cloud, it became
simple; had been there from the beginning. The sperm bank. This
meant we had to go to a doctor in our set2 and tell what we hadn’t told
anybody: we want a child. Karen is going to produce it. We don’t wish
to hear any opinions for or against this decision that’s already made,
cannot be changed. We just need to know how one approaches a
sperm bank and whether you, one of us, will perform the simple
process of insemination. That’s all. Amazement and passionate
curiosity remodelled the doctor’s face but she controlled the urge to
question or comment, beyond saying I’m sure you know what it is
you’re doing. She would make the necessary arrangements; there
would be some payment to be made, maybe papers to sign, all
confidential. Neither donor nor recipient will know that the other
exists.
The whole process of making a life turns out to be even blinder
than nature. Just a matter of waiting for the right period in Karen’s
cycle when the egg is ready for the drop of liquid. Anonymous drop.
And waiting, unnecessarily looking at the calendar to make
sure – waiting is a dangerous state; something else came to life in us.
Karen was the first to speak.
– From the lab, the only way. But who will know if it’s from a
white? Or a black? Can one ask? –
– Maybe. Yes. I don’t know. –
But after the moment of a deep breath held between us, I had
to speak again, our honesty is precious. – Even if the answer’s yes, how
can we be sure. Bottled in a laboratory what goes into which? –
The sperm of Mr Anonymous White Man. Think what’s in the
genes from the past, in this country. What could be. The past’s too
near. They’re alive, around – selling, donating? – their seed. The
torturers who held people’s heads under water, strung them up by the
hands, shot a child as he approached; the stinking cell where I was
detained for nine weeks, although what happened to me was nothing
compared with all the rest.
If the anonymous drop contains a black’s DNA, genes? It
would bring to life again in Karen’s body, our bodies as one, something
1
2
akin to similar to
set a group of people who have similar interests and ways of living
of those whose heads were held under water, who were strung up by
the hands, a child who was shot. No matter whether this one also
brings the contradictions of trouble and joys that are expected of any
child.
But how can one be sure? Of that drop?
We keep talking; our silences are a continuation. Shall we take
the risk. How would we know, find out? Years, or perhaps when he,
the white child, is still young; you see certain traits of aggression, of
cruel detachment in young children – the biological parents ask, where
did he get it from, certainly not from you or me. When he – the child
we’re about to make somehow is thought of now as a male – is
adolescent, what in the DNA, the genes, could begin to surface from
the past?
We postponed. We went to the Galápagos, perspective of another world. Now that we’re back we don’t talk about making a life, it
is not in our silences – home, alone, as it was before.
So I was never born. Refused, this time. I suspect it was the only time.
But then what I have is not what is experienced as memory.
‘Just as everything is always something else ... it may also throw some
light on the procreative god.’1
The Germans know they are losing. It is after the war of bombs falling
on cities. In our family we stayed alive through all that. We Russian
bears, we’ve come into the fight on the other side, we’re going to win
for the English and French who can’t do it for themselves. While the
final battles go on at the front the Germans still occupy our old city,
but only just. We have our people who move around in the streets we
know so well and knife them at night. So they come to our houses with
their guns and frighten the women, smashing the furniture and
throwing out whatever’s in cupboards and under beds, while they
search for our men they know do these things. They shout all the time
so loud, like a stampeding herd of cattle through the house, that I can
hardly hear my sisters screaming and I don’t know what my mother,
her mouth wide over tight teeth, is trying to tell me to do. Run? How
could I get away. They took my father, kicking him to our door, well at
least we know that he had managed to get back at them before they
got to him, he killed at least three in the times he left us at night and
crept back into bed beside my mother before light. Then one of them
looks round; and takes me. Kicks me after my father. My mother howls
at them, He’s only fourteen, a baby, he knows nothing, nothing! But
they don’t understand Russian. Anyway, they know that soon when
I’m fifteen I’ll be called up2, there are boys from my class who are now
in our army because we must win, everyone must fight. They throw
my father and me into a kind of military van and keep us on the floor
with their feet on us but I see the tops of buildings near our street go
past and the towers of the old church my mother goes to and says it
was built centuries ago and is the most beautiful in our country, in the
world, and it was God who spared it from the bombing. And I even see
the one wall, sticking up, of the theatre that was bombed, where we
once went to see my eldest sister, she’s an actress, play a part in a
play by Maxim Gorky3. We’d also read it in my class at school.
Seeing these things, still there, I can’t believe I’m here so
scared I can hardly breathe. My father keeps trying to turn his head to
look at me, I know he wants to tell me it’s all right, he’s with me.
Then there are tops of buildings I don’t know, and then no
buildings, only sky. My nose is running. No, I’m crying! Baby! I snort
the tears back up through my nose, my father mustn’t know.
We get wherever it is they’re taking us and the army van opens
in a yard, very bright high lights like in a sports field but there’s a
building with bars at the windows. They take my father away but not
1
Harry Mulisch, ‘The Procedure,’ trans. Paul Vincent (Viking, 2001) [Author’s note]
called up ordered to join a military organization
3 Maxim Gorky (1868 - 1936) a Russian/Soviet author, a founder of the socialist
realism literary method and a political activist
2
to the building and I call, I yell, but they don’t let him answer, I see his
shoulders struggling. The Germans who’re holding me take me into
the building. It’s a prison. I’ve only seen the inside of a prison in films.
There’s some argument going on, I don’t understand their language
but I think it’s because they don’t know what to do with me.
I know they’re going to shoot my father. This fear that takes
away the movement of my legs, the Germans are holding me up,
dragging1 me along passages, is it fear for him or for me. But why don’t
they take me away to be shot wherever they’re doing it to him. They
open an iron door and throw me into a small place, dark, with a square
of light cut by thick black bars. When they have gone I make out that
there’s nobody but me and a patch that must be a blanket.
I’ve been here days now, they bring me water and food sometimes and there’s a bucket that stinks of me. But it’s as if nothing ever
happened to me, I am not Kostya who was in school and played second
league football and went shopping to carry for my mother and had
already invited Natalya to the cinema, paying for her, there is only the
ride on the floor of the military van beside my father, and the church
tower and the theatre wall sticking up, and his back as he went to be
shot. Because if he wasn’t shot he would be in this place with me. We
would be very close because this space is very small, there’s hardly
room to spread the blanket to lie down. There’s a wall in my face
whichever way I turn. If I jump with my hands ready I can just reach
and grab the iron bars on the bit of window and hang there. But it’s
difficult to haul up my head and shoulders so I can see anything. Only
the bars. I feel the bars in my hands, if I lie on the blanket and close
my eyes, I see the bars. Sometimes I have the crazy idea that my head
is getting smaller, if I can think it into getting small enough I could stick
it through the bars. My head would be out of the tight walls, the bars
wouldn’t be there on my eyes even when my eyes are closed.
What can they do with me? They can’t send me back home to
tell everyone everything. They’ve lost the war. There they are at the
door, they leave it open a moment, stare at me. A loud word in their
language. They’ve come.
Taking me away to be shot. The bars still there on my eyes.
‘The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew Brings me to birth
again –
To find what once I had,
1
dragging making someone go somewhere they do not want to go
And know what once I have known.’1
The grandmother used to talk about the war and after the war when
there were plans in which the government would build up everything
that was lost and the man with the great moustache2 was power in the
world just like the American president and she had been on a trip with
a women’s group to Moscow to see the other one3 in his tomb, dead
but still as if he was alive among everyone in the country. The
granddaughter was born after the one with the great moustache was
also dead and she grew up under the public display of portraits of
those, one by one, who came after him; successive faces of the father
she didn’t have. Apparently he had left her mother for another woman
when his child was too small to have kept memory of him. The Government fathers provided good schools and clinics for children, and her
mother had a steady job in a catering business, conditions for whose
employees were ensured by their trade union. The grandmother had
her pension.
The child was taken with her school class (like her grandmother’s group, earlier, but not to the tomb) to museums and the
overawing4, dwarfing interiors of splendid buildings which had
survived the war and been restored, palaces and theatres from way
back in the history of Czars, now belonging, the Government said, to
the people. She loved these expeditions; the chipped but glorious gilt,
bulbous cupolas, flying crenellated5 arrows of spires aimed at the
clouds, the saints painted in deserted chapels – religion was not taught
in schools, and only the very old, like her grandmother, ventured to go
and pray in museum-churches without priests to receive them. God
was not there. But the grandmother privately could not accept this:
that he did not exist. The young girl introduced her mother to the
splendour that belonged to the city of their unchanging routine of
school, work, food queues, and when the State ballet came on tour,
they went together to be dazed with enchantment – tickets were
cheap, ordinary workers could afford such pleasures. She had decided
she wanted to be a teacher; and then, seeing computers working
magically in television shows, changed to the ambition to learn
computer skills and maybe work in a regional Government office. Her
mother’s trade union would know how the daughter should go about
this, when the time came.
But when the time came, she had completed her school
education, it was a different time. Another time. The great fathers lost
power, lost hold, the countries that had made a vast union under one
name, broke apart. The intellectuals and others the fathers had feared
and imprisoned were let out. The world outside told, now all would be
1
W B. Yeats, ‘On Woman’ [Author’s note]
the man with the great moustache Stalin (1878-1953)
3 the other one Lenin (1870-1924)
4 overawing causing someone to feel a mixture of extreme respect and fear
5 crenellated having battlements (= castle walls with regular spaces along the top)
2
free. Bring the computers, bring the casinos, bring whatever the West
says that makes happiness that never tried, couldn’t have. And they
did. And the new Government that had never done business the
West’s way didn’t do well, now in business with them.
Factories closed without the market for their products that
had existed conveniently in the vast union. Elena’s mother lost her job
when the catering firm failed in competition with what were called
fast-food chains with American names which replaced many
restaurants, Elena could not study to become a teacher or a computer
operator. She had to find work, any work. Foreigners come to do
business lived in hotels refurbished1, by the international chains that
had taken them over, to make them feel they were in an hotel in the
West. Her mother could not believe it: her daughter, so clever, who
was going to make a career in that very world, the new world, came
home one day to tell that she had found work: as a chambermaid in
one of the hotels. She was instructed to wear a skirt, not jeans, and
supplied with a uniform apron. She passed doors hung with the sign
‘Do Not Disturb’ in English, French, German and Japanese, and
knocked softly on others. If there was no response, she was to go in,
make the beds, vacuum the carpets, clean the bathroom, replace the
towels, soap and whatever was missing from the basket of free
miniatures of bath-oil, shampoo, provided in the high cost (payable in
dollars only) of the room. The sheets were stained with semen. The
drain-traps2 of the bathtubs were blocked with pubic hairs. The
lavatory bowls often were not flushed of traces of shit. Socks stiff with
sweat and shirts dirty at collar and cuffs had to be picked up off the
carpet and placed neatly on a chair. The housekeeper came regularly
to see if such things were correctly done.
Sometimes when the chambermaid knocked there was no
reply and she went in, there was someone there, a voice from under
the shower, and she would apologise and leave at once. There were
times when she entered after no reply and a man was standing, halfdressed, and while she apologised he would smile and say, go ahead,
I’ve finished with the bathroom. But she had her instructions: I’ll come
back later. There was the morning when she knocked and someone
answered in a language she didn’t recognise as English (learnt a little
at school), German, French or Japanese. She turned away but the door
opened and a man in the white towelling3 dressing gown4 the hotel
provided in the bathrooms blocked the light of the room. – No Italian?
– Okay, understand English? Come please. – She followed him to the
bathroom and he pointed to the bath towels that had fallen from their
rail into the water. She signalled: I bring some more. When she came
back with the towels he thanked her, smiling, shrugging effusively at
1
refurbished looking new and bright again
drain-traps Fr. drains à siphon
3 toweling a soft thick cloth used especially for making towels or clothing
4 dressing gown a long loose piece of clothing, like a coat, which you wear informally
inside the house
2
the good service, – You Russian? Yes, I’m sure you’re real Russian girl.
First one I know! – She smiled back as a maid should, polite to a guest,
never mind their dirt. Nodded determinedly. – Russian, yes. – She said
it in her language, and he cocked1 his head a little as if hearing a bird
call. They both laughed, and she left. Next day when she knocked at
507 the door opened at once. He was a large man, the Italian, tall and
broad but not fat, with a fancy belt that still met above a strong belly,
and a fresh full face, black thick-lidded eyes, and a glossy crest of grey
hair worn consciously as a cock his comb. The age of many of the
foreign guests, somewhere at the end of the fifties. She saw all this,
really, for the first time: he was presenting himself.
Again he signalled her into the room. He had unpacked some
purchase; there was a jumble of cardboard box, bubble wrap, plastic
chips. Could she do something about this mess? They communicated
well by signs and their few English words, her willingness, his
appreciation brought laughter. He helped her gather the pieces from
the carpet, fill the box, picked it up and made to carry it to the door
for her, while she protested, trying to take it from him. It fell and
spilled again. He threw his hands above his head in mock culpability.
When they came down again they went round her, he was rocking her
against him, laughing. She pulled away. He let her go. – Don’t be
cross2. Come sit down. – She did not know what she was supposed to
do. You must not be rude to a hotel guest. He sat on the velvet chaiselongue and patted3 the place beside him. She came slowly to the
summons4. Now he put his one arm round her shoulders and turned
her to him, kissed her. His lips were warm and pleasant, a change from
the dirt she associated with hotel guests, he smelled of pine
aftershave. He pressed her closer and put his tongue in her mouth.
The caress, the advances came from that other world, outside, the
world of computers and travel, even while she resented what he was
doing, it took her there, away from the chambermaid.
He was waiting, every morning. He would be in the dressing
gown at his laptop computer or on the telephone, surrounded by a
calculator, another – a mobile – phone and spread documents. She
could see he was a big businessman of some kind. This was the
equipment they all had in their rooms. He would gesture her to him
and run a free hand down her buttocks5 while he argued, agreed,
lowered his voice confidentially, raised it confidently in Italian.
Business over, he made love to her on the bed she would make up
afresh in the course of her work, later.
She had been clumsily penetrated by a youth who ejaculated
halfway but she did not know the act could be like this. The entry of
1
cocked raising a part of your body so that it is vertical or at an angle
cross angry
3 patted touching something gently with your hand flat, especially as a sign of
affection
4 summons an order to come and see somebody
5 buttocks the two round soft parts at the top of a person’s legs
2
this man was an exquisite opening up of all that must have been secret
inside her and when some sort of flame jetted from his strong
movements within the sheath he wore she was lit up all through her
body down her shuddering thighs and he had to shush her cry – there
might someone passing in the hotel corridor.
She had her rooms to clean; he had his appointments to meet.
He found a better arrangement: what was her lunch-hour? He would
arrange his meetings accordingly, his business lunches could be
scheduled late. Between embraces he would feed her cherries and
slices of peach from the bowl the hotel kept replenished on his coffee
table, poor little girl, no time for her to lunch.
His stay at the hotel was longer than usual for foreign businessmen; he must have had complex financial deals that meant
waiting for the opportunity to make this connection or that with an
intermediary. She was told nothing of this, or anything else about his
life where he came from, Italy, but she saw how he was often
exasperated when he put down the telephone or grew impatient with
the fax facility attached to it. The third week, must have been – one
lunchtime he looked at her lying under him, rising on his elbows for a
better perspective. His mouth shaped and reshaped as if he were
urging himself to make some gesture not physical, toward what it was
time to leave behind: pleasures dictating one course, judgment the
other. When she was dressing he watched her. That responsive body
concealing itself; he had had many responsive bodies coming and
going in his life, but time was passing and one more ...
– I can take you to Italy. –
She didn’t believe him, didn’t answer.
– No, it’s true. I know someone, I can get you papers. We’ll
find work for you there. Not this, here. Better work. You can’t go on in
this place. –
She shook her head, lower and lower. He was smiling, dismissing her powerlessness before his capability in the world of official
fixes.
What could he know of the mother, the grandmother she
went back to every night with leftover food one of the chefs smuggled
from the hotel restaurant to give her.
– First days of next month, I go. I take you. Nothing for a girl
like you, here. – Every lunchtime he confirmed, assumed the
arrangement. And she found her voice: – No, no I cannot. –
At last he lost interest – all right. There were plenty of girls
who would jump at the chance to get out. And there are plenty of girls
in Milan even if they haven’t the novelty of being a real Russian one.
But when she was walking home from the bus stop on her
afternoon off duty she saw something so terrible that she was almost
run over by a truck as she plunged across the traffic to reach it. Old
people begging in the streets; they were everywhere, old men in the
remnants of their respectable functionaries’ or clerks’ suits, old
women with the bewildered faces of former housewives, shamed
under shawls1. But this one she was in panic to reach was her own
grandmother. She took her home, unable to speak, eyes screwed with
tears of anger, disgust, as if the old woman were a criminal caught in
the act. At home, her mother first cried and then countered with an
anger of her own. – She hasn’t had her pension paid for a year – one
month more than a year. I stand with her for days outside the office,
no-one is paid. What can they do but sit in the street and hope
someone has something to give? Why shouldn’t she do what they do?
How can we live on what you bring from that hotel? I’ll have to try and
put her in an old people’s home, she’ll die there away from us! What
else is there? – Next day the grandmother was back on her stool in the
street. Her granddaughter saw her, and passed.
There was something else.
After the lunchtime love-making she brought up the subject
he had set aside. – If you can do papers, I go to Italy. –
It was not just the sight of the revered2 old woman begging in
the street; the sometime chambermaid had something of the rational
intelligence, calculation, of the businessman. He would find decent
work for her in that country outside, Italy, that wonderful city he spoke
about, Milan, and she would send good currency back to her mother.
If she stayed a chambermaid her grandmother would remain a beggar
among all the other beggars.
She left them behind. Her mother had not known about the Italian
businessman but when told of his offer she did not hesitate: Go, Elena.
They did not speak about what would become of those left behind.
Perhaps the mother could take over the daughter’s work as a
chambermaid.
Her mother gave her in farewell a picture book of the city, its
ancient palaces, churches, squares and museums they had visited
together; she must have exchanged something for it in the market
where people parted3 with their possessions, and the daughter herself
asked for, and was granted, photographs taken in the city in times
when her mother had a good position and they still owned a camera.
She had a room in a small hotel in his city, Milan, his country, Italy. The
room was five floors up, a tiny cage of an elevator to take her there,
bring him to her when he had time. The first day, he showed her a lacy
stone spire4 just visible fretted out of the sky in the window. – You
have a view of the Duomo5! You must go to the piazza6 and see it, the
most beautiful thing in the whole world. –
He paid for the hotel room and took her to a trattoria7 nearby
1
shawls large pieces of cloth worn by a woman around the shoulders or head
revered idolized
3 parted separated
4 spire a tall pointed structure on the top of a building
5 Duomo (Italian) a cathedral church
6 piazza (Italian) a public square
7 trattoria (Italian) a restaurant serving simple food
2
where he had arranged with the patron for her to have her meals. It
was a large and animated place where people working in the quarter
came in a hurry to eat and drink plentifully. This was as he had told, a
wonderful city; the narrow streets of shops displaying like art
exhibitions beautiful clothes and shoes whose elegance you could not
ever have imagined. He was looking out for something for her – work;
but she had to have better clothes to wear if he should find that
something! He took her to a department store that had good clothes
on the racks, not as elegant as the small shops she gazed into, and
bought for her trousers and jackets and shoes she had never had. Of
course she always had been this tall, angular body with wide-apart
breasts, this white skin and jutting cheekbones, shaggy1 dark hair,
narrow black eyes and lips whose defining edges were attractively
coarse in contrast with her skin; but now, in the shop mirror, she was
seen by herself to be beautiful, in her way; as he, the Italian, must have
seen her to be as a chambermaid. So she wandered the city dressed
now like any of the smart working men and women from shops and
offices, and hurried back to the hotel to see if there was any message
from him; any day, every day, he might have found something, a job
for her. She was listening avidly to the talk around her, reading the
labels and signs on objects she could recognise, picking up a little of
the language.
He did not come to claim love-making as often as he had back
in that other hotel, her country. He had a great deal of work, a staff to
direct, and she knew there was the apartment in some other part of
the city where he lived with his wife; he had not talked about his family
before he brought her to Italy, they couldn’t talk much then or now
because of their lack of a fluent common language, their tongues in
love-making were the only real form of communication they had in
common. But now he would mention that he wouldn’t be coming to
her from his offices next afternoon because his son had to be met at
the airport or his wife was giving a cocktail party for her visiting
relatives and he had to be home early. Although the city was a marvel
surging around her she was more and more anxiously impatient to
have work and belong to the city instead of being its spectator. Work
and foreign currency to send back where she came from. And she also
had the illusion – she knew it to be one – that she would pay him back,
for the hotel, the trattoria, the clothes, in time; she would have liked
the love-making not to be paid for in any way but the pleasure
exchanged. But that, she knew, belonged to being in love. Men loved
their wives. He loved his wife, she was sure of it, felt it; she had never
had the chance to be in love.
He found something for her. And for himself as well.
It was not work, in Milan where he would be supposed to keep
coming to her – perhaps there was some new woman for that
1
shaggy long, rough and untidy
diversion, or his wife was getting suspicious and difficult. But he
treated his women kindly and it so happened that a solution came up
to benefit everybody, satisfy what he felt was his wide family
responsibility, uncles, aunts, cousins, as well. He told her, one
weekend (she did not usually expect him in those periods it was taken
for granted he would spend with his wife and children), he wanted to
introduce her to someone in his family. Perhaps there was an
opportunity because the wife was away, or the relative was one with
whom he exchanged confidences over affairs with women, someone
to be counted upon to be discreet. But she was surprised and shyly
touched at this sign of letting her into his life. After an hour’s drive
when the Alps were always present, approaching, withdrawing, as she
followed this landscape that was Italy, the world, they came to a town,
a large family apartment filled with imposing old dark furniture,
generous food and wine laid out among the cries of people welcoming
someone he told them he had saved from the chaos in Russia. They
knew what a good man he was, generous. There was an aunt, another
ample woman who might be her sister, a half-grown boy playing a
computer game, the uncle, and a man who was the couple’s son. The
Russian stranger had observed, in Milan, how difficult it was to gauge
the age of certain foreigners; they might look slim and briskly young
seen from the back and turn age-seamed1 faces in which the bones of
the nose were almost emerging from the thin skin, or they might
appear to be well-fleshed, stout-muscled young men, thighs and
buttocks stretching tight pants, the fleshy jaws and earlobes not
necessarily giving away middle age. The son was one of these, and his
mature vigour was the epicentre of the gathering. He had his own
apartment; the Russian girl and the cousin from Milan who had
brought her were taken by the man – Lorenzo, the name was, among
all the names presented to her – to see his apartment almost as if there
were a reason for this, such as an estate agent showing a prospective
dwelling to a client.
There was a reason. The middle-aged son was not married; his
parents did not know exactly why – there were a number of nice, goodlooking girls whose parents would have been only too pleased, lucky,
to have a successful man with three butcher shops, two in town and
another in a nearby village, as a son-in-law. There was some story of a
love affair that had gone on for years with a married woman who
wouldn’t divorce; apparently it was over, she’d moved down south
with her husband to Naples. Confidentially, the aunt and uncle in
family council had told their worldly Milanese nephew to look out for
a suitable wife from among the many women he must know, it was
time for a man of Lorenzo’s age and status to settle down. At the time,
the Milanese nephew had raised high his eyebrows and pulled down
his mouth; what city woman would want to come and live in a dull
provincial town, among a few small factories and half-abandoned
1
age-seamed covered with deep lines because of old age
farms, nothing happening? But now there was a Russian girl he had
brought from her wretched existence to his beautiful country out of
kindness – yes, he fancied her for a while – and who would become a
legal citizen by marriage to the son of one of the oldest families in a
provincial town, what better solution to looking out for something for
her! A well-off husband, every comfort, a man who could even afford
to be generous and let her send money to her mother etc. – something
she’d never have earned enough both to support herself and provide,
by whatever humble work he might have found for her, a woman
unable to speak the language, no qualifications but those of a
chambermaid. He certainly wasn’t going to pay her keep forever, and
anyway the particular arrangements through which he’d made her
entry possible had a time limit about to lapse.
Lorenzo came to Milan several times, something to do with a
deal in hides1, he tried to explain; he took her out to dinner in
restaurants where the champagne bottles lolled2 in ice. He too, had a
little English and praised her attempts at Italian, covering her hand
with his in congratulation. He did not kiss her or make overtures to go
to bed with her as she resignedly expected.
No, he was getting to know her. It had been proposed that she
would be a suitable wife. She was an émigrée in doubtful legal
standing, she was not in a position to decide whether she’d prefer to
live in the city with the Duomo or in a small town, she had no prospects
of a job other than to improve her Italian enough to sit at a
comfortable desk and answer the telephone, greet customers as the
wife of the owner in his high-class butcher shop – it would add to his
local prestige to be shown to have settled down. And maybe even if
the wife was a foreigner that would only evidence his superior flair in
matters other than the way he prepared each customer’s individual
cut of meat with the skill and finesse of a surgeon.
Her Milanese came to her little hotel room with a view of the
Duomo not to make love to her but to tell her that there was a great
chance for her. The papers he had arranged for her in a certain way
were no longer valid; she would be deported, nothing he could do
about that. Lorenzo was ready to marry her. She would become an
Italian wife, belong to this beautiful country. Lorenzo was a good man,
not old, a man any woman would – he stopped, spread open his hands.
Love; he didn’t need to say it.
He came from Milan for the wedding. The aunt had been with
her to a friend of the family who owned a shop in the town that was a
modest version of the shops whose perfectly-composed windows
made clothes works of art in the narrow streets of Milan; she had a
wedding outfit and hat but not the girlish convention of white and long
veil. The vigorous maturity of the bridegroom would have made this
unsuitable; who knew what her background was, anyway, in that
1
2
hides strong thick skins of animals which are used for making leather
lolled lying
savage unknown vastness, Russia. They had not made love before the
marriage, as if that was part of the arrangement. His love-making was
concentrated, nightly regular as his butchering during the days. They
couldn’t talk much because of the language difficulty, again. There was
no tenderness – but then she had not known any since that of her
mother and grandmother towards her – but there was generosity: he
insisted she buy herself whatever fine clothes she liked and presented
her with jewellery, looking on at it with calculated pride, round her
neck and on her wrists and fingers. Love-making between husband
and wife was part of the rest of the days and nights, she went with him
to his principal butcher shop in the morning, his customers who were
all friends or long acquaintances of his family were introduced to her,
smiled and congratulated her, lucky woman, and at night the couple
came back to his apartment, cleaned and left in perfect order by a
woman he could afford to employ daily. They lived on the primest of
prime beef, cheeses and fruits exotic to her. She had never eaten so
well in her life. In the first month of the marriage she was pregnant.
He announced this to the whole family, his pride was theirs.
She brought out her picture book of her city, where she was
conceived and born, where she was the child, and displayed the
photographs taken when she and her mother visited the ancient
churches (maybe they were the most beautiful in the world). How else
can the stranger show she too has her worth – she hasn’t come
without a heritage. The husband’s mother was enchanted; look, look,
she thrust the book at his father, tried to distract her sister’s
adolescent grandson from his computer games. Lorenzo was again
proud: so! His choice was not just some poor little foreigner from a
frozen barbaric country ruined by communists, she had a provenance
of ancient monuments, opera houses, churches, almost as Italy had
her – unequalled, of course – treasures, which the family had never
visited beyond those of Milan but knew of, owned by national right.
He wanted to show this woman, carrying his child, where he
was born. Not in the town with his two butcher shops, where his
parents had retired? No. No, the farm that had belonged to his greatgrandfathers, grandfather and father. Now was his. Over a weekend
extended by a religious holiday on a Monday – some saint’s day or
other – he was going to give her a treat1 there hadn’t been the
opportunity for in what was supposed to be their courtship. He would
take her into the country to see his cattle farm developed from the old
farm, source of his wealth, of the good life he provided for her.
Another uncle and cousin run the operation for him, with their wives,
in the old homestead he’s renovated for them. Microwave, satellite TV
– you’ll see. The latest model installations, raising cattle for the supply
of high quality beef he sold not only in his shops but supplied to supermarkets and restaurants in Milan, Turin and beyond.
She takes with her, shyly, knowing she won’t be able to have
1
treat a special and enjoyable experience
much conversation with these relatives, either, the picture book and
the photographs of the city she has had to leave behind. She puts on
her gold bracelets and the necklace with an amber pendant (she’d
chosen that because amber comes from her part of the world) which
falls at the divide of her wide-apart breasts he appreciates so much.
It is a long drive – beautiful. Now and then she puts the flat of
her palm on her stomach, she thought there was already a faint swell
of the curve there; but really is amused at herself, all the prime meat
they eat has made her less gaunt1 anyway. Whoever is in there – boy,
girl – hasn’t grown enough yet to make the presence evident. She is
very well, no morning sickness his aunt had warned her of; a healthy
Russian woman become an Italian wife. She feels a sudden – yes,
happiness, it must be? At thirty, a new sense of life. As he drives, she
looks from the landscape to this man dutifully received so weighty on
top of her every night, with a recognition that he, too, must need this
sense.
The old farmhouse shows its transformation to be his, as his
gifts of fine clothes and jewellery transform her. When she uses the
bathroom, it is all mirrors and flowered tiles. The new relatives
embrace her, there is coffee and wine and cakes. Again the picture
book and photographs go round; she summons her breathlessly
hesitant words of their language to tell them the names of squares and
churches, palaces. These glories that have survived are once more his
wife’s distinctions – she, his acquisition. He is gratified by the
enthusiasm for Russia’s old glory of these relatives who depend on him
for their living: – You must go there one day. – In America it is said that
people are booking trips to the moon ...
Then it was time for the uncle and cousin to take her, led by
her husband who owns it all, round the cattle-breeding installation. To
her, cows graze in fields in summer, they are part of the green peace
of a landscape as clouds are of a sky. There are brilliant fields
stretching way behind the house. But no cows. There are sheds2 huge
as aircraft hangars, and a great machine beside a solid wall of crushed
maize that smells like beer.
Five hundred beasts. The owner knows his possessions exactly. In the hangars are five hundred beasts. The party is walked along
the cement passage between each row, where the heavy heads face
their exact counterparts on the opposite row. In front of each bowed
head is a trough filled with the stuff that smells like beer. The huge
eyes are convex blacked-out mirrors, expressing no life within. The
broad, wet, black soft noses breathe softly upon the food. Some are
eating; those that are not are in the same head-bowed position. They
are chained by the leg. The bulk of each animal is contained – just – by
the iron bars of a heavy stall; it cannot turn round. It can only eat, at
this end of its body. Eat, eat. The butcher owner tells her: at six
1
2
gaunt very thin
sheds large simple buildings used for a particular activity
months, ready for slaughter. Prime.
Then she is led down the backs of the rows. Vast rumps,
backsides touch the iron bars, hide streaked1 and plastered with the
dung2 that falls into a trough like the one for food. The legs are stumps3
that function to hold up bulk.
She spoke only once – no need, the butcher owner keeps a
running commentary of admiration of his beasts’ condition, market
prices. She puts together in English, out of the muddle of languages
that inhibit her tongue: – When they go out in the fields? –
Never. They spend the six months in the installation. That is
the way meat production is done today. They are gelded4 – know what
that is – he demonstrates. That’s why they grow so fast and well!
She puts out a hand to touch the head above the shining eyeglobes and the creature tries to draw away in fear but cannot move
more than a few centimetres to either side, or front and back of the
iron bars.
She turned from the men, absorbed in their talk and gestures,
and walked out of the hangar looking only at the concrete under her
feet. If the eyes followed her as she passed, she could do nothing for
them. Nothing.
She stands outside, the sweetish beer smell from the wall of
crushed maize in her nostrils as in theirs. She is swollen with such
horror, her body feels the iron bars enclosing her, the bars are before
her eyes, she cannot turn about, escape to the house. She does not
know where it comes from, this knowledge – happening to her – of
how it is for them, beasts born dumb as a human being can be made
dumbly unable to free itself. It is as if that brief moment of awareness
– happiness – had opened her to something in her she didn’t,
shouldn’t know, a real memory she couldn’t have had. There are many
bad things endured in her abandoned, escaped life back – home –
where the basilica from past centuries was world-renowned and her
grandmother begged in the famous streets, her pension unpaid for
years. But there is nothing, in her own record her life keeps, like this.
And there is now, here, a child inside her seeded by the owner of these
beasts in iron bars.
When the men come out, he takes her arm. – Tired? – And to
the other men, in their language – She’s expecting, you know. – The
news is repeated, over grappa, at the house. This aunt embraces her.
There is a toast to the new addition soon to be welcomed in the family.
A child with an inheritance – going to be born lucky.
She collected her picture book and photographs. At that
moment she decided she would go there – home.
Back.
But to what?
1
streaked moved somewhere extremely quickly, usually in a straight line
dung solid waste from animals
3 stumps parts of leg which are left after most of it has been removed
4 gelded castrated
2
Instead she found someone who, with the exchange of her few words,
money, agreed to give her an abortion. And she told the butcher she
had miscarried.
‘The individual’s choice of a future earthly body is limited, however...’1
No. Whoever the interpreter was who wrote that was in ignorance.
Choice? That’s a temporal concept. There’s no choice because choice
implies a fixed personality to make it. I am an old being Returned in
the being of a child; I find I’m back as a man, or Returned again to
continue his experience in another time, place, as a woman. The
gender is only one of the forms of Return. But if there can be any
remnant2 of what I once really was – ‘really’: how meaninglessly
relative that is in so many, many Returns – it is the sense that I’m
somehow more fully inhabited, as a male, than when the Return is
female. And to carry over being from the earthly death of a young male
to a woman, with the vestiges of what he endured inevitably
continued somewhere in her – I inhabit her, I am her – that something
in me of course becomes part of her, her personality her character as
a being, although she doesn’t know the reason.
And within her, a maleness I harbour3 resents this being – hers
– as the victim she is in this phase of possible existences.
1
T. C. Lethbridge, Witches (Lyle Stuart, 1969), quoted by Ruth White, Karma & –
Reincarnation (Weiser Books, 2001) [Author’s note]
2 remnant remains
3 harbour contain something and allow it to develop
Guo, Xiaolu (2007) A Concise Chinese-English
Dictionary for Lovers [excerpts]
BEFORE
Guo A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers (2)
prologue
prologue n introduction to a play or book
Now.
Beijing time 12 clock midnight.
London time 5 clock afternoon.
But I at neither time zone. I on airplane. Sitting on 25,000 km
above to earth and trying remember all English I learning in school.
I not met you yet. You in future.
Looking outside the massive sky. Thinking air staffs need to set a
special time-zone for long-distance airplanes, or passengers like me
very confusing about time. When a body floating in air, which country
she belonging to?
People’s Republic of China passport bending in my pocket.
Passport type
Passport No.
Name in full
Sex
Date of birth
Place of birth
P
G00350124
Zhuang Xiao Qiao
Female
23 JULY 1979
Zhe Jiang, P. R. China
I worry bending passport bring trouble to immigration officer, he
might doubting passport is fake and refusing me into the UK, even with
noble word on the page:
China further and further, disappearing behind clouds. Below is ocean.
I from desert town. Is the first time my life I see sea. It look like a
dream.
As I far away from China, I asking me why I coming to West.
Why I must to study English like parents wish? Why I must to get
diploma from West? I not knowing what I needing. Sometimes I not
even caring what I needing. I not caring if I speaking English or not.
Mother only speaking in village dialect and even not speaking official
Mandarin, but she becoming rich with my father, from making shoes
in our little town. Life OK. Why they want changing my life?
And how I living in strange country West alone? I never been
to West. Only Western I seeing is man working in Beijing British
Embassy behind tiny window. He stamp visa on brand new passport.
What else I knowing about West? American TV series dubbing
into Chinese, showing us big houses in suburb, wife by window cooking
and car arriving in front house. Husband back work. Husband say
Honey I home, then little childrens running to him, see if he bringing
gift.
But that not my life. That nothing to do with my life. I not
having life in West. I not having home in West. I scared.
I no speaking English.
I fearing future.
FEBRUARY
alien
alien adj foreign; repugnant (to); from another world n foreigner;
being from another world
Is unbelievable, I arriving London, ‘Heathlow Airport’. Every single
name very difficult remembering, because just not ‘London Airport’
simple way like we simple way call ‘Beijing Airport’. Everything very
confuse way here, passengers is separating in two queues.
Sign in front of queue say: ALIEN and NON ALIEN.
I am alien, like Hollywood film Alien, I live in another planet,
with funny looking and strange language.
I standing in most longly and slowly queue with all aliens
waiting for visa checking. I feel little criminal but I doing nothing wrong
so far. My English so bad. How to do?
In my text book I study back China, it says English peoples talk
like this:
‘How are you?’
‘I am very well. How are you?’
‘I am very well.’
Question and answer exactly the same!
Old saying in China: ‘Birds have their bird language, beasts
have their beast talk’ (鸟有鸟语，兽有兽言). English they totally
another species.
Immigration officer holding my passport behind his accounter,
my heart hanging on high sky. Finally he stamping on my visa. My heart
touching down like air plane. Ah. Wo. Ho. Ha. Picking up my luggage,
now I a legal foreigner. Because legal foreigner from Communism
region, I must re-educate, must match this capitalism freedom and
Western democracy.
All I know is: I not understanding what people say to me at all.
From now on, I go with Concise Chinese–English Dictionary at all times.
It is red cover, look just like Little Red Book.1 I carrying important book,
even go to the toilet, in case I not knowing the words for some
advanced machine and need checking out in dictionary. Dictionary is
most important thing from China. Concise meaning simple and clean.
1
Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung is a book of selected statements from
speeches and writings by Mao Zedong (Mao Tse-tung), the former leader of the
Chinese Communist Party, published from 1964 to about 1976 and widely distributed
during the Cultural Revolution. The most popular versions were printed in small sizes
that could be easily carried and were bound in bright red covers, becoming
commonly known in the West as the Little Red Book. [source: Wikipedia]
hostel
hostel n building providing accommodation at a low cost for a specific
group of people such as students, travellers, homeless people, etc
First night in ‘hostel’. Little Concise Chinese–English Dictionary hostel
explaining: a place for ‘people such as students, travellers and
homeless people’ to stay. Sometimes my dictionary absolute right. I
am student and I am homeless looking for place to stay. How they
knowing my situation precisely?
Thousands of additional words and phrases reflect scientific and
technological innovations, as well as changes in politics, culture,
and society. In particular, many new words and expressions as
well as new usages and meanings which have entered the
Chinese language as a result of China’s open-door policy over
the last decade have been included in the Chinese–English
section of the dictionary.
That is sentence in Preface. All sentence in preface long like this, very
in-understandable. But I must learning this stylish English because it
high-standard English from authority. Is parents’ command on me:
studying how speak and write English in England, then coming back
China, leaving job in government work unit and making lots money for
their shoes factory by big international business relations. Parents
belief their life is dog’s life, but with money they save from last several
years, I make better life through Western education.
Anyway, hostel called ‘Nuttington House’ in Brown Street,
nearby Edward Road and Baker Street. I write all the names careful in
notebook. No lost. Brown Street seem really brown with brick
buildings everywhere. Prison looking. Sixteen pounds for per bed per
day. With sixteen pounds, I live in top hotel in China with private
bathroom. Now I must learn counting the money and being mean to
myself and others. Gosh.
First night in England is headache.
Pulling large man-made-in-China-suitcase into hostel, second
wheel fall off by time I open the door. (First wheel already fall off when
I get suitcase from airport’s luggage bell.) Is typical suitcase produced
by any factory in Wen Zhou, my hometown. My hometown China’s
biggest home-products industry town, our government says. Coat
hangers, plastic washbasins, clothes, leather belts and nearly- leather
bags, computer components etc, we make there. Every family in my
town is factory. Big factories export their products to everywhere in
the world, just like my parents get order from Japan, Singapore and
Israel. But anyway, one over-the-sea trip and I lost all the wheels. I
swear I never buy any products made from home town again.
Standing middle of the room, I feeling strange. This is The
West. By window, there hanging old red curtain with holes. Under
feet, old blood-red carpet has suspicions dirty spots. Beddings, they
covering by old red blanket too. Everything is dirty blood red.
Room smelling old, rotten. Suddenly my body feeling old too.
‘English people respect history, not like us,’ teachers say to us in
schools. Is true. In China now, all buildings is no more than 10 years
old and they already old enough to be demolished.
With my enormous curiosity, walking down to the night street.
First night I away home in my entirely twenty-three years life,
everything scare me. Is cold, late winter. Windy and chilli. I feeling I
can die for all kinds of situation in every second. No safety in this
country, I think unsafe feeling come from I knowing nothing about this
country.I scared I in a big danger.
I scared by cars because they seems coming from any possible
directing. I scared by long hair black man passing because I think he
beating me up just like in films. I scared by a dog. Actually chained with
old lady but I thinking dog maybe have mad-dog-illness and it suddenly
bite me and then I in hospital then I have no money to pay and then I
sent back to China.
Walking around like a ghost, I see two rough mans in corner
suspicionly smoke and exchange something. Ill-legal, I have to run –
maybe they desperate drug addictors robbing my money. Even when
I see a beggar sleeping in a sleep bag I am scared. Eyes wide open in
darkness staring at me like angry cat. What he doing here? I am taught
everybody in West has social security and medical insurance, so, why
he needs begging?
I going back quickly to Nuttington House. Red old carpet, red
old curtain, red old blanket. Better switch off light.
Night long and lonely, staying nervously in tacky room. London
should be like emperor’s city. But I cannot feel it. Noise coming from
other room. Laughing in drunkenly way. Upstairs TV news speaking
intensely nonsense. Often the man shouting like mad in the street. I
worry. I worry I getting lost and nobody in China can find me anymore.
How I finding important places including Buckingham Palace, or Big
Stupid1 Clock? I looking everywhere but not seeing big posters of David
Beckham, Spicy Girls or President Margaret Thatcher. In China we
hanging them everywhere. English person not respect their heroes or
what?
No sleeping. Switching on the light again. Everything turning
red. Bloody new world. I study little red dictionary. English words
1
Stupid interlingual error/pun: ‘ben’ means ‘stupid’ in Chinese (personal
communication, Dr Robert J. Neather, 29 Dec. 2014)
made only from twenty-six characters? Are English a bit lazy or what?
We have fifty thousand characters in Chinese.
Starting at page one:
A
Abacus:
(meaning a wooden machine used for counting)
Abandon:
(meaning to leave or throw away)
Abashed:
(meaning to feel embrassed or regretful)
Abattoir:
(meaning a place to kill the animals)
Abbess:
(meaning the boss of woman monk’s house)
Abbey:
(meaning a temple)
Abbot:
(meaning the boss of a temple)
Abbreviate:
(meaning to write a word quickly)
Abduct:
(meaning to tie somebody up and take away to
somewhere)
Words becoming blurred and no meaning. The first night I falling into
darkness with the jet-lag tiredness.
full english breakfast
1. Builder’s1 Super Platter:
double egg, beans, bacon, sausage, bubble2,
mushroom, tomato, 2 toast, tea or coffee
included.
2. Vegetarian Breakfast:
double egg, bubble, mushroom, beans, veggie
sausage, hash browns3, tea or coffee included.
‘Talk doesn’t cook rice,’ say Chinese. Only thing I care in life is eating.
And I learning English by food first, of course. Is most practical way.
Getting up early, I have free Full English Breakfast from my
hostel. English so proud they not just say hotel, they say Bed and
Breakfast, because breakfast so importantly to English situation. Even
say ‘B and B’ everyone know what thinking about. Breakfast more
important than Bed.
I never seeing a breakfast like that. Is big lunch for
construction worker! I not believe every morning, my hostel offering
everybody this meal, lasting three hours, from 7 clock to 10 clock. Food
like messy scrumpled eggs4, very salty bacons, burned bread, very
thick milk, sweet bean in orange sauce, coffee, tea, milk, juice. Church
or temple should be like this, giving the generosity to normal people.
But 8.30 in the morning I refuse accepting two oily sausage, whatever
it made by pork or by vegetables, is just too fat for a little Chinese.
What is this ‘baked beans’? White colour beans, in orange
sticky sweet sauce. I see some baked bean tins in shop when I arrive
to London yesterday. Tin food is very expensive to China. Also we not
knowing how to open it. So I never ever try tin food. Here, right in front
of me, this baked beans must be very expensive. Delicacy is baked
beans. Only problem is, tastes like somebody put beans into mouth
but spit out and back into plate.
Sitting on breakfast table, my belly is never so full. Still two
pieces of bread and several ‘baked tomatoes’ on my plate. I can’t chew
more. Feeling guilty and wasty, I take out little Concise Chinese–English
Dictionary from my pocket, start study English. My language school
1
builder construction worker
bubble short for “bubble and squeak”, i.e., a traditional English dish made with
leftover potatoes and vegetables that are fried together in a pan
3 hash browns a traditional American dish of chopped potatoes and onion, fried until
they’re brown
4 scrambled eggs Fr. œufs brouillés
2
not starting yet, so I have to learn by myself first. Old Chinese saying:
‘the stupid bird should fly first before other birds start to fly’ (笨鸟先
飞).
When I am studying the word Accommodate, woman come
clean table, and tell me I must leave. She must hate me that I eat too
much food here. But not my fault.
First morning, I steal white coffee cup from table. Second
morning, I steal glass. So now in my room I can having tea or water.
After breakfast I steal breads and boiled eggs for lunch, so I don’t
spending extra money on food. I even saving bacons for supper. So I
saving bit money from my parents and using for cinema or buying
books.
Ill-legal. I know. Only in this country three days and I already
become thief. I never steal piece of paper in own country. Now I studying hard on English, soon I stealing their language too.
Nobody know my name here. Even they read the spelling of
my name: Zhuang Xiao Qiao, they have no idea how saying it. When
they see my name starts from ‘Z’, stop trying. I unpronouncable Ms Z.
First three days in this country, wherever I walk, the voice
from my parents echo my ears:
‘No talking strangers.’
‘No talking where you live.’
‘No talking how much money you have.’
‘And most important thing: no trusting anybody.’
That my past life. Life before in China. The warns speaking in
my mother’s harsh local dialect, of course, translation into English by
Concise Chinese–English Dictionary.
pronoun [page 25-27]
pronoun n word, such as she or it, used to replace a noun
First week in language school, I speaking like this:
‘Who is her name?’
‘It costing I three pounds buying this disgusting sandwich.’
‘Sally telling I that her just having coffee.’
‘Me having fried rice today.’
‘Me watching TV when me in China.’
‘Our should do things together with the people.’
Always the same, the people laughing as long as I open my
mouth.
‘Ms Zh-u-ang, you have to learn when to use I as the subject,
and when to use me as the object!’
Mrs Margaret speaking Queen’s English to me.
So I have two mes? According to Mrs Margaret, one is subject
I one is object I? But I only one I. Unless Mrs Margaret talking about
incarnation or after life.
She also telling me I disorder when speaking English. Chinese
we starting sentence from concept of time or place. Order like this:
Last autumn on the Great Wall we eat barbecue.
So time and space always bigger than little human in our
country. Is not like order in English sentence, ‘I’, or ‘Jake’ or ‘Mary’ by
front of everything, supposing be most important thing to whole
sentence.
English a sexist language. In Chinese no ‘gender definition’ in sentence.
For example, Mrs Margaret says these in class:
‘Everyone must do his best.’
‘If a pupil can’t attend the class, he should let his teacher know.’
‘We need to vote for a chairman for the student union.’
Always talking about mans, no womans!
Mrs Margaret later telling verb most difficult thing for our
oriental people. Is not only ‘difficult’, is ‘impossibility’! I not understanding why verb can always changing.
One day I find a poetry by William Shakespeare on school’s library
shelf. I studying hard. I even not stopping for lunch. I open little
Concise Dictionary more 40 times checking new words. After looking
some Shakespeare poetry, I will can return back my China home,
teaching everyone about Shakespeare. Even my father know Shakespeare big dude, because our in our local government evening classes
they telling everyones Shakespeare most famous person from Britain.
One thing, even Shakespeare write bad English. For example,
he says ‘Where go thou?’. If I speak like that Mrs Margaret will tell me
wrongly. Also I finding poem of him call ‘An Outcry Upon Opportunity’:
’Tis thou that execut’st the traitor’s treason;
Thou sett’st the wolf where he the lamb may get1
I not understanding at all. What this ‘’tis’,‘execut’st’ and ‘sett’st’?
Shakespeare can writing that, my spelling not too bad then.
After grammar class, I sit on bus and have deep thought about my new
language. Person as dominate subject, is main thing in an English
sentence. Does it mean West culture respecting individuals more? In
China, you open daily newspaper, title on top is ‘OUR HISTORY DECIDE
IT IS TIME TO GET RICH’ or ‘THE GREAT COMMUNIST PARTY HAVE
THIRD MEETING’ or ‘THE 2008 OLYMPICS NEED CITIZENS PLANT MORE
GREENS’. Look, no subjects here are mans or womans. Maybe Chinese
too shaming putting their name first, because that not modest way to
be.
1
These are lines 928-929 from Shakespeare’s narrative poem The Rape of Lucrece.
“An Outcry Upon Opportunity” is a non existent title.
nonsense [page 179-180]
nonsense n something that has or makes no sense; absurd language;
foolish behaviour
I am sick of speaking English like this. I am sick of writing English like
this. I feel as if I am being tied up, as if I am living in a prison. I am
scared that I have become a person who is always very aware of
talking, speaking, and I have become a person without confidence,
because I can’t be me. I have become so small, so tiny, while the English
culture surrounding me becomes enormous. It swallows me, and it
rapes me. I am dominated by it. I wish I could just forget about all this
vocabulary, these verbs, these tenses, and I wish I could just go back to
my own language now. But is my own native language simple enough?
I still remember the pain of studying Chinese characters when I was a
child at school.
Why do we have to study languages? Why do we have to force
ourselves to communicate with people? Why is the process of
communication so troubled and so painful?
Editor’s translation
AFTERWARDS [page 347ff]
epilogue
epilogue n short speech or poem at the end of a literary work, esp
a play
Day 1
It’s a big aeroplane, with so many seats, so many passengers. Air
China, with the phoenix tail drawn on the side. This time, it takes me
east. Which direction is the wind blowing now, I wonder? Coming to
England was not easy, but going back is much harder. I look at the
window and it reflects a stranger’s face. It’s not the same ‘Z’ as one
year ago. She will never look at the world in the same way. Her heart
is wounded, wounded, wounded, like the nightingale bleeding on the
red rose.
The lights are on again. A Chinese steward smiles at me, and
serves my second meal: rice with fried pork and some broccoli. It is
hot, and sticky. As my body slowly digests the rice, I understand,
deeply, in my bones: we are indeed separated.
People say nowadays there are no more boundaries between
nations. Really? The boundary between you and me is so broad, so high.
When I first saw you, I felt I saw another me, a me against me,
a me which I contradicted all the time. And now I cannot forget you
and I cannot stop loving you because you are a part of me.
But, maybe all this is just nonsense, Western philosophical
nonsense. We can’t be together just because that is our fate, our
destiny. We have no yuan fen1.
Thirteen hours later, we touch down in Beijing. I spend day
walking around the city. The sandy wind from the Mongol desert drags
through bicycles, trees, roofs. No wonder people are much stronger
and tougher here. The whole city is dusty and messy. Unfinished
skeletons of skyscrapers and naked construction sites fill the horizon.
The taxi drivers spit loudly on to the road through their open windows.
Torn plastic bags are stuck on trees like strange fruits. Pollution,
pollution, great pollution in my great country.
I call my mother. I tell her I have decided to leave my hometown job and move to Beijing. She is desperate. Sometimes I wish I
could kill her. Her power control, for ever, is just like this country.
‘Are you stupid or something?’ she shouts at me in the
1
yuan fen “fateful coincidence”, a concept in the Chinese folk religion describing
good and bad chances and potential relationships; it can also be translated as
“destiny, luck as conditioned by one's past” or “natural affinity among friends”; it is
comparable to the concept of karma in Buddhism, but yuan fen is interactive rather
than individual. [adapted from Wikipedia]
telephone. ‘How will you live without a proper job?’
I try to say something:
‘But I can speak little bit English now, so maybe I can find a job
where I use my English, or perhaps I will try to write something …’
She strikes back immediately: ‘Writing on paper is a piece of
nothing compared with a stable job in a government work unit! You
think you can reshape your feet to fit new shoes? How are you going
to live without government medical insurance? What if I die soon? And
what if your father dies as well?’
She always threatens to die the next day. Whenever it comes
to this deadly subject, I can only keep my mouth shut.
‘Are you waiting for rabbits to knock themselves out on trees,
so you can catch them without any effort?! I don’t understand young
people today. Your father and I have worked like dogs, but you haven’t
even woken up yet. Well, it’s time you stopped daydreaming and
found yourself a proper job and a proper man. Get married and have
children before your father and I are dead!’
As I keep silent and don’t counter her, she throws me her final
comment:
‘You know what your problem is: you never think of the
future! You only live in the present!’
And she bursts into tears.
Day 100
During my year of absence, Beijing has changed as if ten years passed.
It has become unrecognisable.
I am sitting in a Starbucks café in a brand new shopping centre,
a large twenty-two-storey mall with a neon sign in English on its roof:
Oriental Globe. Everything inside is shining, as if they stole all the lights
and jewels from Tiffany’s and Harrod’s. In the West there is ‘Nike’ and
our Chinese factories make ‘Li Ning’, after an Olympic champion. In the
West there is ‘Puma’ and we have ‘Poma’. The style and design are
exactly the same. The West created ‘Chanel no. 5’ for Marilyn Monroe.
For our citizens we make ‘Chanel no. 6’ jasmine perfume. We have
everything here, and more.
At night, some friends take me to a Karaoke. The place is not
made for me. It is for Chinese men who seek freshness when they
have grown tired of their old wives. In empty rooms, young women
in tight miniskirts with half naked breasts wait for loners to come and
sing. The dim rooms remind me of the pubs in London: smoke,
leather seats, low tea tables, loud voices and crazy laughing. I sit and
listen to men singing songs like The Long March1 or The East Is Red2.
I feel out of place in China. Wherever I go, in tea houses, in
hotpot restaurants, in People’s parks, in Dunkin Donuts, or even on
top of the Great Wall, everybody talks about buying cars and houses,
investing in new products, grabbing the opportunity of the 2008
Olympics to make money, or to steal money from the foreigner’s
pockets. I can’t join in their conversations. My world seems too
unpractical and nonproductive.
‘But you can speak English, that alone should earn you lots of
money! Nowadays, anything to do with the West can make money.’
My friends and my relatives keep telling me this.
Day 500
I think I have received your last letter. It arrived a month and a half ago
and there has been nothing since then. I don’t know why.
I think maybe I will never go back to England, the country
where I became an adult, where I grew into a woman, the country
where I also got injured, the country where I had my most confused
days and my greatest passion and my brief happiness and my quiet
sadness. Perhaps I am scared to think that I am still in love with you.
But all these thoughts don’t matter too much anymore. Only
sometimes, when I am alone in Beijing in my flat, an obscure night,
noisy construction sites outside my window, I still can feel that pain.
Yes, the geography helps a lot. I know the best thing to do is to let each
other go, to let us each live on a different planet, parallel lives, no more
crossing over.
This is the last letter I received from you. The last.
Dear Z, I am writing to you from Wales. I’ve finally moved
out of London. The mountain behind my stone cottage is
called Carningli. It is Welsh, it means Mountain of the Angel
…
I brought some of our plants and the old kitchen
table here. I think the sunflowers are missing you. Their
heads have bowed down in shame – as if they have been
punished by their school teacher – and their bright yellow
petals have turned deep brown. But I think your little
bamboo tree is very happy because we have had Chinese
weather for the last month. Last week I planted some
climbing roses outside my cottage because I thought it
would be good to have more colours around.
1
“The Long March” a song about the Long March, a strategic military retreat
undertaken in 1934–1935 by the Red Army of the Communist Party of China, and
usually seen as a glorious episode in the history of Chinese communism
2 “The East Is Red” a song that was the de facto anthem of the People’s Republic of
China during the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s [adapted from Wikipedia]
Every day I walk through the valley to the sea. It is a
long walk. When I look at the sea, I wonder if you have
learned to swim …
Your words are soaked in your great peace and happiness, and these
words are being stored in my memory. I kiss this letter. I bury my face
in the paper, a sheet torn from some exercise book. I try to smell that
faraway valley. I picture you standing on your fields, the mountain
behind you, and the sound of the sea coming and going. It is such a
great picture you describe.
It is the best gift you ever gave me. The address on the
envelope is familiar. It must be in west Wales. Yes, we went there
together. I remember how it rained. The rain was ceaseless, covering
the whole forest, the whole mountain, and the whole land.
Hinojosa, Rolando “Sometimes It Just Happens That
Way” (1983)1
LIST OF CHARACTERS OF
Sometimes It Just Happens That Way; That’s All
(A Study of Black and White Newspaper Photographs)
The Cordero Family Baldemar
Marta, his sister
parents Don Albina (deceased) and doña
Mercedes
Beto Castañeda Marta’s husband
The Tamez Family Ernesto
Emilio
Joaquín
brothers
Bertita, their sister
parents Don servando and doña Tula
(deceased)
Amelia Cortez Dance hall girl and prostitute
Romeo Hinojosa Court appointed attorney
Robert A. Chapman Assistant District Attorney,
Belken County
Helen Chacón Acting Asst. Deputy Recorder,
Belken County
1 Many thanks are due to Mathilde de Fraipont, whose master paper (UCL, 2011-2012)
provided the basis for the present edition.
The text is based on: Hinojosa, Rolando (1983). The Valley. A re-creation in narrative
prose of a portfolio of etchings, engravings, sketches, and silhouettes by various artists
in various styles, plus a set of photographs from a family album. Tempe, Arizona:
Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe, pp. 55-70.
Hinojosa “Sometimes It Just Happens That Way” (2)
SOMETIMES IT JUST HAPPENS THAT WAY; THAT’S ALL
Excerpt from the Klail City Enterprise-News (March 15, l 970)
Klail City. (Special) Baldemar Cordero, 30, of 169 South Hidalgo Street,
is in the city jail following a row in a bar in the city’s Southside. Cordero
is alleged to have fatally stabbed Arnesto Tamez, also 30, over the
affections of one of the “hostesses” who works there.
No bail1 had been set at press time.
1
bail the temporary release of an accused person awaiting trial, sometimes on
condition that a sum of money is lodged to guarantee their appearance in court
ONE OF THOSE THINGS*
*Editor’s note: This cassette recording of Balde Cordero’s statements has been
reproduced faithfully using conventional spelling where necessary. What matters
here is the content, not the form. March 16, 1970, Klail City Workhouse1.
What can I tell you? The truth’s the truth, and there’s no dodging2 it,
is there? It’s a natural fact: I killed Ernesto Tamez, and I did it right
there at the Acquí me quedo3. And how can I deny it? But don’t come
asking me for no details; not just yet, anyway, ’cause I’m not all that
sure just how it did happen – and that’s God’s truth, and no one else’s,
as we say. That’s right; Neto Tamez is gone and like the Bible says: I
can see, and I can hear.
But that’s the way it goes, I guess. He’s laid out4 there
somewhere, and just yesterday late afternoon it was that me and my
brother-in-law, Beto Castañeda, he married my sister Marta, you know
… well, there we were, the two of us drinking, laughing, cuttin’ up5,
and just having ourselves a time, when up pops6 Ernesto Tamez just
like Old Nick7 himself: swearing and cursing8 like always, and I got the
first blast9, but I let it go like I usually … like I always do … Oh, well …
Anyway, he kept it up, but it didn’t bother me none; and that’s the
truth, too.
You knew Tamez, didn’t you? What am I saying? Of course, you
did. Remember that time at Félix Champión’s10 place? Someone came
up and broke a bottle of beer, full, too; broke it right backside Ernesto’s
head, someone did. Ol’ Ernesto’d broken a mirror, remember? He’d
taken this beer bottle and just let go at that mirror, he did. Well’p, I
sure haven’t forgotten, and I always kept my eyes open; no telling
what he’d do next. I wouldn’t step aside, of course, but I wouldn’t turn
my attention away from him, see?
Well, it was like I said: there we were, Beto and me, we’d
11
hoist a few until we’d run out of cash, or we’d get beer bent12, but
that was it: none o’ that cadging13 free drinks for us; when we got the
money, we drink. When we don’t, we don’t, and that’s it.
1
workhouse a county jail that holds prisoners for shorter periods, e.g. for persons
who are awaiting trial or convicted persons serving a shorter sentence
2 dodge to avoid, esp. in a cunning or dishonest way
3 Aquí me quedo name of a bar (literally: I am staying here)
4 lay out to prepare a body for burial after death
5 cut up to behave in a playful or foolish manner
6 pop up to appear or occur suddenly
7 Old Nick the devil
8 curse to address with offensive words
9 blast a violent (verbal) attack
10 Félix Champión name of a bar
11 hoist to raise a glass to one’s mouth in order to drink
12 beer bent drunk with beer
13 cadge to try to get sth to which one is not strictly entitled
Now, I’ve known Tamez – the whole family, in fact – since
primary school and when they lived out in Rebaje; there was Joaquín
– he’s the oldest, and he wound up1 marrying or had to anyway,
Jovita de Anda. You know her? Now, before she married Joaquín,
Jovita was about as hard to catch as a cold in the month of February.
She straightened out2, though; and fast, too. Then there’s Emilio; he’s
the second in line; he got that permanent limp3 o’his after he slipped4
and then fell off a refrigerator car that was standing off the old MoPac line over by that pre-coole run by Chico Fernández. The last one’s
Bertita; she’s the only girl in the family, and she married one of those
hard workin’ Leal boys. Took her out of Klail City faster’n anything
you ever saw: he set himself up out in West Texas – Muleshoe, I think
it was – and being the worker he was, why, he turned many a shiny
penny: Good for him is what I say: he earned it. Bertita’s no bargain5,
I’ll say that, but she wasn’t a bad woman, either. Ernesto was
something, though; from the beginning. I’ll tell you this much: I put
up with6 a lot – and took a lot, too. For years. But sometimes
something happens, you know. And when it does, well …
There’s no room for lying, Hinojosa; you’ve known me, and
you’ve known my folks for a long time … Well, as I was saying, Beto
and I started drinking at the San Diego, from there we showed up at
the Diamond – the old Diamond over on Third7 – stayed there a while,
and we were still on our feet, so we made for8 the Blue Bar after that.
We would’ve stayed there, too, ’cept for the Reyna brothers who
showed up. There’s usually trouble for somebody when they’re
around, and that’s no secret, no, sir. What they do is they’ll drink a
beer or two, at the most, but that’s about it, ’cause they only drink to
cover up the grass9 they’ve been popping10 … But you know that
already … Cops11 that don’t know ’em come up, smell the brew12, and
they figure the Reynas are drunk, not high. But everybody else knows;
don Manuel, for one, he knows. Anyway, as soon as the Reynas
showed up at the Blue Bar, Beto and I moved on; that’s the way to
avoid trouble; get out of there, ’cause trouble’ll cross your way, and
fast. As for Anselmo Reyna, well, I guess he learned his when I looked
him down13 at the Diamond that one time; he learned his, all right. But
1
wind up to arrive or end up in a specified state, situation or place
straighten out to change for the better
3 limp an irregular way of walking, caused by injury, stiffness, a handicap...
4 slip to lose one’s footing and fall
5 bargain a good buy, the best choice
6 put up with to tolerate, endure
7 Third Third Avenue/Third Street
8 make for to move or head towards (a place)
9 grass cannabis
10 pop to smoke
11 cops policemen
12 brew cannabis, weed
13 look someone down to regard (someone) with a feeling of superiority
2
there they were at the Blue Bar, higher’n1 a cat’s back, so we got out
o’ there, and then went on over to the Aquí me quedo.
That’s really something, isn’t it? I mean, if the Reynas hadn’t2
a showed up at the Blue Bar, why, nothing would’ve happened later
on, right? But that’s not right either, is it? ’Cause when something’s
bound to happen, it’ll happen; and right on schedule, too. Shoot3! That
was going to be Ernesto’s last night in the Valley, and I was chosen to
see to4 it: just like that. One. Two. Three. No two ways is there?...
Although … well, I mean, it boils down5 to this: I killed a human being.
Who’d-a6 thought it?
It’s funny, Hinojosa … I kind of remember the why but not the
when of it all. I mean, I’ve been sworn at, cussed7 at, but I always let
that kind of stuff go by, know what I mean? But then, too … to actually
have someone come-right-up-to-you like this here, come right up to
you, see, point blank kind-a8, and, and, ah, added to which I’d been
drinking some and Ernesto there had been breaking ’em for me9 for a
long time, and me, remembering a lot o’ past crap10 he’d dumped on
me, and him being a coward and all, yeah, he was, always counting on
his brothers for everything, so … there it was – we went after it. Finally.
After all these years.
Later on it I think it was that Beto told me about the blood and
about how it just jumped out and got on my arms, and shirt, ’n face,
and all over … Beto also said I didn't blink an eye or anything; I just
stood there, he said. All I remember now is that I didn’t hear a word;
nothing. Not the women, or the screaming … Nothing; not even the
guys who came a-running. Nothing. I could see ’em, though, but that’s
all.
Sometime later, I don’t know when or for how long, but
sometime later, I walked on out to the street and stood on the curb11
there, and noticed a family in a house across the way just sitting down
and watching TV; they looked peaceful there, y’know what I mean?
Innocent-like. Why, they had no idea … of what had … and here I was,
why, I’d been just as innocent a few minutes before … You, ah, you
understand what I’m saying? ... I’ll say this, though, that talk about life
and death is something serious. I mean, it’s … it’s … Shoot, I don’t even
know what I’m tryin’ to say here …
Did I ever tell you that Ernesto – and this was in front of a lot
o’ people, now – did I ever tell you he cut in every chance12 he got?
1
higher’n higher than
hadn’t-a hadn’t have
3 shoot exclamation expressing disbelief, scepticism, disgust, disappointment, etc.
4 see to sth to ensure
5 boil down to sth to amount to
6 who’d-a who would have
7 cuss to utter offensive words in anger or annoyance
8 kind-a kind of
9 breaking ‘em for me annoying, irritating, nagging me
10 crap shit
11 curb a kerb, a stone edging to a pavement or raised path
12 cut in every chance to seize any opportunity
2
Just like that. He’d cut in on1 a girl I was dancing with, or just take her
away from me. All the time. Over at El Farol2 and the other places …
Well, he did. One other time, he told a dance girl that I had come down
with a dose of the clap3. Can you beat that? He was always up to
something – and then something happened, and I killed him.
Justlikethat. Not because of that one thing, no. Jesus! It just happens,
that’s all. One o’those things I guess … Maybe I shouldn’t’ve waited so
long; maybe I should’ve cut his water off4 sooner, and then perhaps
this wouldn’t’ve happened . . . Ahhhh, who’m I kidding5 ? What’s
done’s done, and that’s it.
Well, last night just tore it for me, though; he swore right at
me – no mistake there – and he laughed at me, too. And then, like
talking into a microphone, he said I didn’t have the balls to stand up to
him. Right there, in front of everybody again. Now, I had put up with a
lot of crap, and I have. From friends, too, ’cause I can then swear or
say some things myself, but it’s all part of the game – but not with him.
Ever. I didn’t say a word. Not one; I sure didn’t. I just looked at him,
but I didn’t move or do or say anything; I’m telling you I just stood
there. Damfool6 probably thought I was afraid of him. Well, that was
his mistake, and now mine, too, I guess. He kept it up – wouldn’t stop,
not for a minute. Then, to top it off7, he brings one of the dance girls
over and says to her, to me, to everybody there, that he’d looked me
down a hundred times or more; looked me down, and that I had taken
it – ’cause I was scared. Chicken, he said. The dance girl, she didn’t
know what to say, what to do; she was half-scared, and embarrassed,
too, I’ll warrant8 … But she just stood there as he held on to her9 ... by
the wrist ... I think the music stopped or something. I remember, or I
think I do, anyway, that there was a buzz10 or a buzzer11 going off12
somewhere, like I was wearing a beehive13 instead of that hat of mine.
Does that make sense? I heard that buzzing, see, and the hissing14,
raspy15 voice of that damfool, and then I saw that fixed, idiotic smile o’
that dance girl, and then – suddenly, yeah – in a rush, see; suddenly a
scream, a yell, a, a shriek-like, and I saw Ernesto sliding, slippin’ sort-a,
in a heap16 … and falling away … falling, eh?
Now, I do recall I took a deep breath, and the buzzing sort-a
1
cut in on to interrupt a dancing couple to take over from one partner
El Farol name of a bar
3 clap gonorrhoea (sexually transmitted disease)
4 cut water off to thwart someone (Fr. contrecarrer, contrarier)
5 kid to tease, to joke
6 damfool a foolish person
7 Top sth off to finish sth in a memorable or notable way
8 warrant to affirm or guarantee
9 hold on to to continue to keep
10 buzz an atmosphere of excitement and activity
11 buzzer a push button at a door that gives a ringing or buzzing signal when pushed
12 go off to begin to sound
13 beehive a box-like or dome-shaped structure in which bees are kept
14 hiss to make a sharp sibilant sound as of the letter s
15 raspy scratchy
16 in a heap with the body completely limp
2
stopped and I remember walking outside, to the sidewalk1, and then I
spotted that family I told you about, the one watching TV. And
standing there, I looked at my left hand: I was carrying that pearlhandled knife that Pa Albino had given me when I was up in Michigan.
I went back inside the place, ’n then I went out again. I didn’t
even think of running away. What for? And where? Everybody knew
me. Shoot. The second time I walked back in, I noticed that the cement
floor had been hosed down2, scrubbed3 clean. Not a trace-a blood
either, not on the floor, or anywhere. They’d taken Ernesto out back,
where they keep the warm beer and the snacks, next to the toilet
there. When don Manuel came in, I gave him the knife, and then I went
to the sidewalk, to the side of the place … I got sick, and then I couldn’t
stop coughing. I finally got in don Manuel’s car, ’n I waited for him.
When he got through in there, he brought me here … straight to jail …
That old man probably went home to see my Ma, right? Well …
Anyway, early this morning, one of his kids brought me some
coffee, and he waited until I finished the pot. You know … I’ve tried to
fix, to set down in my mind, when it was that I buried my knife in that
damfool. But I just can’t remember … I just can’t, you know … And try
as I may, too. It could be I just don’t want to remember, right?
Anyway, Beto was here just before you came in … He’s on his way to
the District Attorney’s office to give a deposition4, he says. I’ll tell you
how I feel right now: I feel bad. I can’t say how I’ll feel later on, but for
now, I do, I feel really bad, you know. That stuff about no use crying
over spilled milk and all that, that’s just talk, and nothing more. I feel
terrible. I killed a … and when I think about it, real slow, I feel bad …
Real bad …
I was wrong – dead wrong, I know; but if Ernesto was to insult
me again, I’d probably go after him again. The truth is … The truth is
one never learns.
Look, I’m not trying to tire you out5 on this – I keep saying the
same thing over and over, but that’s all I can talk about. But thanks for
coming over. And thanks for the cigarettes, okay? Look, maybe – just
maybe, now – maybe one of these days I’ll know why I killed him – but
he was due and bound to get it someday, wasn’t he? All I did was to
hurry it up a bit … You see? There I go again …
Oh, and before I forget, will you tell Mr. Royce that I won’t be
in tomorrow … and remind him I got one week’s pay coming to me.
Will you see to that?
I’ll see you, Hinojosa … and thanks, okay?
1
sidewalk pavement
hose down to clean with a hose
3 scrub to rub hard for the purpose of cleaning, typically with a brush and water
4 deposition a formal, usually written, statement to be used as evidence
5 tire someone out to exhaust
2
MARTA, AND WHAT SHE KNOWS*
*Cassette dated March 17, 1970.
... what happened was that when Pa Albino died up in Michigan as a
result of that accident at the pickle plant, Balde decided we’d all spend
the winter there in Michigan till we heard about the settlement one
way or ’nother. Right off, then, that contractor1 who brought us up
from the Valley, he tried to skin2 us there and then and so Balde had
to threaten him so he’d do right by us. So, with what little we got out
of him, Balde hired us a lawyer to sue3 Turner Pickle Company. He was
a young one that lawyer, but a good one: he won the case, and that
pickle company, well, they had to pay up for damages, as they call
them. Now, when that was settled, we paid what we owed there in
Saginaw, and with what we had left from that, well, we used it to see
us through the winter months there while we looked around for
another contractor to bring us back or to live up in Michigan while
some work or other turned up4. By this time, Beto was calling on5 me
but not in a formal way. You see, we, Ma and I, we were still in
mourning6 on account o’ Pa, and... well, you know how that is...
You’ve known Balde since he was a kid, and, as Pa used to say:
What can I tell you? Ma’s been laid up7 with paralysis for years, but
with all that, she’s never missed a trip up North. Well, there we were
with other mexicano families from Texas, stuck up in Saginaw,
Michigan and waiting for winter to set in and looking for work. Any
type of work; whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Balde was the first one
to land8 a job: he got himself hired on as a night man at the bay port
there. Not too much after that, he put in a good word for Beto, and
that way they worked together. Later on, but you know this, Beto and
I got married. At that time, Balde must’ve been twenty-seven years
old, and he could have had his pick of9 any Valley girl there or
anywhere else, but because of Ma’s condition, and the lack-a money,
’n first one thing and then ’nother, well, you know how that goes
sometimes. So, we’ve been back in the Valley for some two years now,
and I guess Balde stopped looking. But you know him; he’s a good man;
he was raised solid10, and no one begrudges11 the beer or two or
whatever many he has on Saturdays: he won’t fight, and that’s it. He
won’t say why he won’t fight, but I, Ma ’n me, we know why: we’d be
1 contractor
a person or firm that undertakes a contract to provide materials, perform
a service or do a job
2 skin to cheat sby out of their money, to swindle
3 sue to start legal proceedings against a person or an institution
4 turn up to be found, especially by chance, after being lost
5 call on to have recourse to, or pay a visit to
6 mourning the expression of sorrow for someone’s death
7 lay up to put someone out of action through illness or injury
8 land to succeed in obtaining or achieving (something desirable), especially in the face
of competition
9 have a pick of to choose among a wide range of candidates
10 solid severe, hard, trustworthy
11 begrudge to envy (someone) the possession or enjoyment of (something)
hurting, that’s why. I'll tell you this, too: he’s put up with a lot. A lot...
but that’s because he’s always thinking o’ Ma and me, see?
Once, and just the once, and by chance, too, I did hear that
Balde laid it to1 one of the Reyna brothers, and no holds barred2 from
what I heard … but this wasn’t ever brought up here at the house.
You know, it’s really hard to say what I felt or even how I felt
when I first heard about what had happened to Neto Tamez. At first I
couldn’t … I couldn’t bring myself to believe it, to picture it … I … I just
couldn’t imagine that my brother Balde … that he would kill someone.
I’m not saying this ’cause he’s a saint or something like that, no, not atall3. But I will say this: it must’ve been something terrible; horrible,
even. Something he just couldn’t swallow4; put up with. It cost5 him; I
mean, Balde had to hold back for a long time, and he held back, for a
long time … Holding it in all that time just got to him. It must have.
And, too, it could be that Ernesto went too far that time; too
far. Beto had told me, or tried to, in his way, he tried to tell me about
some of the stuff Neto Tamez was doing, or saying, and all of it against
Balde; trouble is that Beto’s not much of a talker, and he keeps
everything inside, too, just like Balde does … As far as me getting any
news out o’ Balde, well … all he ever brought home was a smile on his
face. I’ll say this, though, once in a while he’d be as serious and as quiet
as anything you’d ever want to see; I wasn’t about to ask him anything,
no sir, I wasn’t about to do that. At any rate, what with tending to6 Ma
here, caring for both of the men of the house, and you add the wash
and the cooking, and the sewing, and what not, hooh! I’ve got enough
to do here without worrying about gossip.
I’m not pretending to be an angel here either, but what I do
know is all second-hand. What I picked up from Beto or from some of
my women friends who’d call, or from what I could pick up here and
there from Balde. I’m telling you what I could piece out or what I would
come up with by adding two and two together, but I don’t really know;
like I told you, I don’t have that much to go on.
Now, the whole world and its first cousin know that Neto
Tamez was always picking and backbiting7 and just making life
miserable for him … Well, everybody else knows how Balde put up with
it, too. I’ll say again that if Balde didn’t put a muzzle on8 him right away,
it was because Balde was thinking-a Ma ’n me. And that’s the truth.
What people don’t know is why Neto did what he did against my
brother.
Listen to this: back when we were in junior high, Neto Tamez
1
lay it to to attack
2 no holds barred (in wrestling) with no restrictions on the kinds of holds that are used;
the phrase is used to convey that no rules or restrictions apply in a conflict or dispute
3 not a-tall not at all
4 swallow to put up with or meekly accept (something unwelcome)
5 cost to cause to suffer
6 tend to someone to look after someone, assist someone
7 backbite to talk maliciously about someone who is not present, to slander
8 put a muzzle on to prevent (a person or group) from expressing their opinions freely
would send me love notes; yes, back then. And he’d follow me home,
too. To top this, he’d bully1 some kids to act as his messenger boys.
Yes, he would. Now, I’d never paid attention to him, mind you, and I
never gave him any ground to do so, either. The girls’d tell me that
Neto wouldn’t even let other boys come near me ’n he acted as if he
owned me or something like that. This happened a long time ago, acourse, and I’d never breathe a word of it to Balde; but! the very first
time I learned that Neto Tamez was giving my brother a hard time, I
knew or thought I knew why he was doing it. I don’t really know if
Balde knew or not, though, but like Beto says: anything’s possible.
Some girlfriends of mine once told me that at La Golondrina
and El farolito, you know, those kind-a places … Anyway, the girls said
that Neto insulted Balde right in front of everybody; a lotta times, too.
You know, he’d cut in or just up and walk away with whatever girl
Balde had at the time … or Neto’d say something nasty, anything,
anything to make Balde’s life a complete misery. On and on, see? Now,
I’m not saying Neto Tamez would actually follow him from place to
place, no, I’m not saying that at all; but what I am saying is that Neto’d
never lose the opportunity … I mean the opportunity to push ’n shove2,
embarrass him until Balde would just have to get up and leave the
place, see? You’ve got to keep in mind that living in the same town, in
the same neighborhood, almost, and then to have to put up with all
sorts of garbage, why, that’s enough to tempt and drive a saint to
madness. I swear it would, and Balde’s no saint. So many’s the time
Balde’d come home, not say a word, and drinking or not, he’d come
in, kiss Ma as he always did, and he’d sit and talk a while and then go
out to the porch and have himself a smoke. Why, compared to Balde,
my Beto’s a walking-talking chatterbox …
The Tamezes are a peculiar3 bunch of people, you know. When
they used to live out in Rebaje, it looked as if they were forever into
something with someone, the neighbors, anybody. I remember the
time Joaquín had to get married to Jovita de Anda; don Servando
Tamez barred all the doors to the house, and then he wouldn’t let the
de Andas in; they couldn’t even attend the wedding, and that was it.
They say that old Mister de Anda … don Marcial … the little candyman?
Well, they say he cried and just like a baby ’cause he wouldn’t get to
see his only daughter get married. I remember, too, that Emilio, one
leg shorter’n the other by that time, was marching up and down in
front of their house like he was a soldier or something …
It was a good thing that poor doña Tula Tamez had passed
4
away and was buried up in Bascom by that time, ’cause she’d-a been
mortified with the goings on in that house … I swear. About the only
thing to come out-a that house was Bertita, and oh! did she have a
1 bully
to use superior strength or influence to intimidate (someone), typically to force
them to do something
2 shove to push roughly
3 peculiar different to what is normal or expected, strange, special
4 pass away to die
case on1 Balde. For years, too. She finally married Ramiro Leal; you
know him, do you? His folks own the tortilla machine …
Well, anyway, yesterday, just about the time you went to see
Balde at the jailhouse, don Manuel Guzmán showed up here. He said
he’d come just to say hello to Ma, but that was just an excuse: what
he really said was for us not to worry about the law and the house.
Isn’t that something? Why, I’ve seen that man dole out2 kicks, head
buttings3, and a haymaker4 or two to every troublemaker here in Klail,
and then, bright ’n early5, one of his kids’ll bring coffee to whoever it
is that winds up in jail that weekend. I’ll say this, too, though: the
streets in Klail have never been safer, and I know that for a fact.
Anyway, just as he was about to leave, don Manuel told me that Ma ’n
me that we could draw6 our groceries from the Torres’ grocery store
down the way. Don Manuel and Pa Albino go back a long time, you
know; from the Revolution, I think. Things are going to get tight around
here without Balde, but Ma ’n me we still have Beto here, and … My
only hope is that the Tamezes don’t come looking for Beto ’cause
that’ll really put us under without a man in the house. Beto’s at the
Court House just now; he had to go and make a statement, they said.
Oh, Mr. Hinojosa, I just don’t know where all of this is going to
take us … But God’ll provide … He’s got to.
1
have a case on someone to have a crush on someone
dole sth out to distribute shares of something
3 headbutt to attack (someone) with a headbutt (an aggressive and forceful thrust
with the top of the head into the face or body of another person)
4 haymaker a forceful blow
5 bright and early very early in the morning
6 draw sth from to obtain something from (a particular source)
2
ROMEO HINOJOSA
Attorney at Law
420 South Cerralvo
Tel. 843-1640
The following is a deposition, in English, made by Beto Castañeda,
today, March 17, 1970, in the office of Mr. Robert A. Chapman,
Assistant District Attorney for Belken County.
The aforementioned officer of the court gave me a copy of the
statement as part of the testimony in the trial of The State of Texas v.
Cordero set for August 23 of this year in the court of Judge Harrison
Phelps who presides in the 139th District Court.
Romeo Hinojosa
March 17, 1970
A DEPOSITION FREELY GIVEN
on this seventeenth day of March, 1970, by Mr. Gilberto Castañeda in room 218 of the
Belken County Court House was duly taken, witnessed, and signed by Miss Helen
Chacón, a legal interpreter and acting1 assistant deputy recorder for said County, as
part of a criminal investigation assigned to Robert A. Chapman, assistant district
attorney for the same County.
It is understood that Mr. Castañeda is acting solely as a deponent2 and is not
3
a party to any civil or criminal investigation, proceeding, or violation which may be
alluded to in this deposition.
“Well, my name is Gilberto Castañeda, and I live at 169 South Hidalgo
Street here in Klail. It is not my house; it belong to my mother-in-law,
but I have live there since I marry Marta (Marta Cordero Castañeda, 169
South Hidalgo Street, Klail City) about three years ago.
“I am working at the Royce-Fedders tomato packing shed as a
grader4. My brother-in-law, Balde Cordero, work there too. He pack
tomatoes and don’t get pay for the hour, he get pay for what he pack
and since I am a grader I make sure he get the same class tomato and
that way he pack faster; he just get a tomato with the right hand, and
he wrap it with the left. He pack a lug5 of tomatoes so fast you don’t see
it, and he does it fast because I am a good grader.
“Balde is a good man. His father, don Albino, my father-in-law
who die up in Saginaw, Michigan when Marta and I, you know, go
together … well, Balde is like don Albino, you understand? A good man.
A right man. Me, I stay an orphan and when the Mejías take me when
my father and my mother die in that train wreck – near Flora? don
Albino tell the Mejías I must go to the school. I go to First Ward
Elementary where Mr. Gold is principal. In First Ward I am a friend of
Balde and there I meet Marta too. Later, when I grow up I don’t visit the
house too much because of Marta, you know what I mean? Anyway,
Balde is my friend and I have know him very well … maybe more than
nobody else. He’s a good man.
“Well, last night Balde and I took a few beers in some of the
places near where we live. We drink a couple here and a couple there,
you know, and we save the Aquí me quedo on South Missouri for last. It
is there that I tell Balde a joke about the drunk guy who is going to his
house and he hear the clock in the corner make two sounds. You know
that one? Well, this drunk guy he hear the clock go bong-bong and he
say that the clock is wrong for it give one o’clock two time. Well, Balde
think that is funny … Anyway, when I tell the joke in Spanish it’s better.
Well, there we were drinking a beer when Ernesto Tamez comes.
Ernesto Tamez is like a woman, you know? Everytime he get in trouble
he call his family to help him … that is the way it is with him. Well, that
1
acting taking on duties temporarily, especially as a substitute for another
deponent a person who makes a deposition or affidavit under oath
3 party a person or group involved in a legal proceeding as a litigant
4 grader (here) a person who sorts tomatoes into grades according to size and quality
5 lug a box or crate used for transporting fruit
2
night he bother Balde again. More than one time Balde has stop me
when Tamez begin to insult. That Balde is a man of patience. This time
Ernesto bring a vieja (woman) and Balde don't say nothing, nothing,
nothing. What happens is that things get spooky1, you know. Ernesto
talking and burlándose de él (ridiculing him) and at the same time he
have the poor woman by the arm. And then something happen. I don’t
know what happen, but something and fast.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. It all happen so fast; the knife,
the blood squirt2 all over my face and arms, the woman try to get away,
a loud really loud scream, not a grito (local Mexican yell) but more a
woman screaming, you know what I mean? and then Ernesto fall on the
cement.
“Right there I look at Balde and his face is like a mask in asleep,
you understand? No angry, no surprise, nothing. In his left hand he have
the knife and he shake his head before he walk to the door. Look, it
happen so fast no one move for a while. Then Balde come in and go out
of the place and when don Manuel (Manuel Guzmán, constable3 for
precinct4 21) come in, Balde just hand over the knife. Lucas Barrón, you
know, El Chorreao5 (a nickname) well, he wash the blood and sweep the
floor before don Manuel get there. Don Manuel just shake his head and
tell Balde to go to the car and wait. Don Manuel he walk to the back to
see Ernesto and on the way out one of the women, I think it is la güera6
Balín (Amelia Cortez, 23, no known address, this city), try to make a joke,
but don Manuel he say no estés chingando (shut the hell up, or words
to that effect) and after that don Manuel go about his own business.
Me, I go to the door but all I see is Balde looking at a house across the
street and he don’t even know I come to say goodbye. Anyway, this
morning a little boy of don Manuel say for me to come here and here I
am.”
Further deponent sayeth not.7
Sworn to before me, this
17th day of March, 1970
/s/
/s/
Helen Chacón
Acting Asst. Deputy Recorder
Belken County
1
Gilberto Castañeda
spooky scary
squirt having been ejected in a forceful stream from a small opening
3 constable a police officer
4 precinct a district of a city or town as defined for policing purposes
5 chorreao (Spanish) dirty, filthy
6 güera (Spanish) blond
7 further deponent sayeth not (legal formula) this is all the deponent wants to say
2
EXCERPT FROM The Klail City Enterprise-News
(Aug. 24, 1970)
Klail City. (Special). Baldemar Cordero, 30, of 169 South Hidalgo Street,
drew a 15 year sentence Harrison Pehelp’s 139th District Court, for the
to the Huntsville Judge in State Prison murder of Ernesto Tanez last
Spring. ETAOINNNNNNNNN1
Cordero is alleged to to have fatally stabbed Ernesto Tanez, also 30,
over the affections of one of the “hostesses” who works there. ETAOIN
SHRUDLU PICK UP2
No appeal had been made at press time.
1 ETAOINNNNNNNNN at the time of the story (1970) newspapers were produced with
Linotype printing technology; when a typesetting error was made, Linotype operators
could not go back to correct it; they filled up the line with these letters by simply
running down their Linotype keyboard and then deleted the whole line; the resulting
nonsense phrase has not been removed in this particular instance, suggesting sloppy
editing and proofreading
2 ETAOIN SHRUDLU see previous note; the phrase “pick up” means that what follows
is again correct text
James, Henry “A Bundle of Letters” (1879)
I
FROM MISS MIRANDA MOPE, IN PARIS,
TO MRS. ABRAHAM C. MOPE, AT BANGOR, MAINE
September 5th, 1879
My dear mother – I have kept you posted as far as Tuesday week last,
and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, I will begin
another before my news accumulates too much. I am glad you show
my letters round in the family, for I like them all to know what I am
doing, and I can’t write to every one, though I try to answer all
reasonable expectations. But there are a great many unreasonable
ones, as I suppose you know – not yours, dear mother, for I am bound
to say that you never required of me more than was natural. You see
you are reaping your reward: I write to you before I write to any one
else.
There is one thing, I hope – that you don’t show any of my
letters to William Platt. If he wants to see any of my letters, he knows
the right way to go to work. I wouldn’t have him see one of these
letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world.
If he wants one for himself, he has got to write to me first. Let him
write to me first, and then I will see about answering him. You can
show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, I will
never write to you again.
I told you in my last about my farewell to England, my crossing
the Channel, and my first impressions of Paris. I have thought a great
deal about that lovely England since I left it, and all the famous historic
scenes I visited; but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a
country in which I should care to reside. The position of woman does
not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is a point, you know, on
which I feel very strongly. It seems to me that in England they play a
very faded-out part, and those with whom I conversed had a kind of
depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were
used to being snubbed and bullied, which made me want to give them
a good shaking. There are a great many people – and a great many
things, too – over here that I should like to perform that operation
upon. I should like to shake the starch1 out of some of them, and the
dust out of the others. I know fifty girls in Bangor2 that come much
more up to my notion of the stand a truly noble woman should take,
than those young ladies in England. But they had a most lovely way of
1
starch Fr. amidon
Bangor American city in the State of Maine (extreme northeastern coast of the
U.S.A., bordering on Canada); in the 19th century Bangor became an important
lumber port; its many loggers and sailors gave it a bad reputation
2
James “A Bundle of Letters” (2)
speaking (in England), and the men are remarkably handsome. (You
can show this to William Platt, if you like.)
I gave you my first impressions of Paris, which quite came up
to my expectations, much as I had heard and read about it. The objects
of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate is remarkably
cheerful and sunny. I should say the position of woman here was
considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the American
standard. The manners of the people are in some respects extremely
peculiar, and I feel at last that I am indeed in foreign parts. It is,
however, a truly elegant city (very superior to New York), and I have
spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and
palaces. I won’t give you an account of all my wanderings, though I
have been most indefatigable; for I am keeping, as I told you before, a
most exhaustive journal, which I will allow you the privilege of reading
on my return to Bangor. I am getting on remarkably well, and I must
say I am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. It only
shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish. I have
discovered none of these objections to a young lady travelling in
Europe by herself of which we heard so much before I left, and I don’t
expect I ever shall, for I certainly don’t mean to look for them. I know
what I want, and I always manage to get it.
I have received a great deal of politeness – some of it really
most pressing, and I have experienced no drawbacks whatever. I have
made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both
ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks. I
have collected a great deal of information, for which I refer you to my
journal. I assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing. I do just
exactly as I do in Bangor, and I find I do perfectly right; and at any rate,
I don’t care if I don’t. I didn’t come to Europe to lead a merely
conventional life; I could do that at Bangor. You know I never would do
it at Bangor, so it isn’t likely I am going to make myself miserable over
here. So long as I accomplish what I desire, and make my money hold
out1, I shall regard the thing as a success. Sometimes I feel rather
lonely, especially in the evening; but I generally manage to interest
myself in something or in some one. In the evening I usually read up
about the objects of interest I have visited during the day, or I post up
my journal. Sometimes I go to the theatre; or else I play the piano in
the public parlour. The public parlour at the hotel isn’t much; but the
piano is better than that fearful old thing at the Sebago House2.
Sometimes I go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books –
a French lady, who is remarkably polite. She is very pretty, and always
wears a black dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a little
English; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the
Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has given me
1
to hold out to last, to be sufficient
the Sebago House a reference to the family’s holiday home near Sebago Lake (in
the state of Maine)
2
a great deal of information about the position of woman in France, and
much of it is very encouraging. But she has told me at the same time
some things that I should not like to write to you (I am hesitating even
about putting them into my journal), especially if my letters are to be
handed round in the family. I assure you they appear to talk about
things here that we never think of mentioning at Bangor, or even of
thinking about. She seems to think she can tell me everything, because
I told her I was travelling for general culture. Well, I do want to know
so much that it seems sometimes as if I wanted to know everything;
and yet there are some things that I think I don’t want to know. But,
as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; I don’t mean only
everything that this French lady tells me, but everything I see and hear
for myself. I feel really as if I should gain all I desire.
I meet a great many Americans, who, as a general thing, I must
say, are not as polite to me as the people over here. The people over
here – especially the gentlemen – are much more what I should call
attentive. I don’t know whether Americans are more sincere; I haven’t
yet made up my mind about that. The only drawback I experience is
when Americans sometimes express surprise that I should be travelling
round alone; so you see it doesn’t come from Europeans. I always have
my answer ready; “For general culture, to acquire the languages, and
to see Europe for myself;” and that generally seems to satisfy them.
Dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it is real interesting.
II
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
September 16th
Since I last wrote to you I have left that hotel, and come to live in a
French family. It’s a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of
school; only it’s not like an American boarding-house, nor like an
American school either. There are four or five people here that have
come to learn the language – not to take lessons, but to have an
opportunity for conversation. I was very glad to come to such a place,
for I had begun to realise that I was not making much progress with
the French. It seemed to me that I should feel ashamed to have spent
two months in Paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the
language. I had always heard so much of French conversation, and I
found I was having no more opportunity to practise it than if I had
remained at Bangor. In fact, I used to hear a great deal more at Bangor,
from those French Canadians that came down to cut the ice, than I saw
I should ever hear at that hotel. The lady that kept the books seemed
to want so much to talk to me in English (for the sake of practice, too,
I suppose), that I couldn’t bear to let her know I didn’t like it. The
chambermaid was Irish, and all the waiters were German, so that I
never heard a word of French spoken. I suppose you might hear a great
deal in the shops; only, as I don’t buy anything – I prefer to spend my
money for purposes of culture – I don’t have that advantage.
I have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but I am well
acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you
bothering over the verbs. I was a good deal troubled, for I felt as if I
didn’t want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of
French conversation. The theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and
as I told you in my last, I go a good deal to places of amusement. I find
no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always
treated with the politeness which, as I told you before, I encounter
everywhere. I see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly French), and
they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as I. But at the
theatre every one talks so fast that I can scarcely make out what they
say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it
is unnecessary to learn. But it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put
me on the track. The very next day after I wrote to you last I went to
the Palais Royal, which is one of the principal theatres in Paris. It is very
small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with
two stars, which is a sign of importance attached only to first-class
objects of interest. But after I had been there half an hour I found I
couldn’t understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so
fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions. I felt a good deal
disappointed and troubled – I was afraid I shouldn’t gain all I had come
for. But while I was thinking it over – thinking what I should do – I heard
two gentlemen talking behind me. It was between the acts, and I
couldn’t help listening to what they said. They were talking English, but
I guess they were Americans.
“Well,” said one of them, “it all depends on what you are after.
I’m after French; that’s what I’m after.”
“Well,” said the other, “I’m after Art.”
“Well,” said the first, “I’m after Art too; but I’m after French
most.”
Then, dear mother, I am sorry to say the second one swore a
little. He said, “Oh, damn French!”
“No, I won’t damn French,” said his friend. “I’ll acquire it –
that’s what I’ll do with it. I’ll go right into a family.”
“What family’ll you go into?”
“Into some French family. That’s the only way to do – to go to
some place where you can talk. If you’re after Art, you want to stick to
the galleries; you want to go right through the Louvre, room by room;
you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. But, if you
want to acquire French, the thing is to look out for a family. There are
lots of French families here that take you to board and teach you. My
second cousin – that young lady I told you about – she got in with a
crowd like that, and they booked her right up in three months. They
just took her right in and they talked to her. That’s what they do to
you; they set you right down and they talk at you. You’ve got to
understand them; you can’t help yourself. That family my cousin was
with has moved away somewhere, or I should try and get in with them.
They were very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin
corresponded with them in French. But I mean to find some other
crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!”
I listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke
about his cousin I was on the point of turning around to ask him the
address of the family that she was with; but the next moment he said
they had moved away; so I sat still. The other gentleman, however,
didn’t seem to be affected in the same way as I was.
“Well,” he said, “you may follow up that if you like; I mean to
follow up the pictures1. I don’t believe there is ever going to be any
considerable demand in the United States for French; but I can
promise you that in about ten years there’ll be a big demand for Art!
And it won’t be temporary either.”
That remark may be very true, but I don’t care anything about
the demand; I want to know French for its own sake. I don’t want to
think I have been all this while without having gained an insight ... The
very next day, I asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel
whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give
me the benefit of their conversation. She instantly threw up her hands,
with several little shrill cries (in their French way, you know), and told
me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. If she had
known I was looking out for such a place she would have told me
before; she had not spoken of it herself, because she didn’t wish to
injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away. She told me this
was a charming family, who had often received American ladies (and
others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was
sure I should be delighted with them. So she gave me their address,
and offered to go with me to introduce me. But I was in such a hurry
that I went off by myself; and I had no trouble in finding these good
people. They were delighted to receive me, and I was very much
pleased with what I saw of them. They seemed to have plenty of
conversation, and there will be no trouble about that.
I came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time I
have seen a great deal of them. The price of board struck me as rather
high; but I must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown
in. I have a very pretty little room – without any carpet, but with seven
mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains. I was rather disappointed after I
arrived to find that there are several other Americans here for the
same purpose as myself. At least there are three Americans and two
English people; and also a German gentleman. I am afraid, therefore,
our conversation will be rather mixed, but I have not yet time to judge.
I try to talk with Madame de Maisonrouge all I can (she is the lady of
the house, and the real family consists only of herself and her two
daughters). They are all most elegant, interesting women, and I am
1
pictures paintings
sure we shall become intimate friends. I will write you more about
them in my next. Tell William Platt I don’t care what he does.
III
FROM MISS VIOLET RAY, IN PARIS,
TO MISS AGNES RICH, IN NEW YORK
September 21st
We had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he
would have to come right back to New York. It was for something
about his business – I don’t know exactly what; you know I never
understand those things, never want to. We had just got settled at the
hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and I, as you may imagine,
were greatly annoyed. Father is extremely fussy, as you know, and his
first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we
should go back with him. He declared he would never leave us in Paris
alone, and that we must return and come out again. I don’t know what
he thought would happen to us; I suppose he thought we should be
too extravagant. It’s father’s theory that we are always running up
bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the
same old rags FOR MONTHS. But father has no observation; he has
nothing but theories. Mother and I, however, have, fortunately, a
great deal of practice, and we succeeded in making him understand
that we wouldn’t budge from Paris, and that we would rather be
chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. So, at
last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three
months. But, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at
the hotel, and insisted that we should go into a family. I don’t know
what put such an idea into his head, unless it was some advertisement
that he saw in one of the American papers that are published here.
There are families here who receive American and English
people to live with them, under the pretence of teaching them French.
You may imagine what people they are – I mean the families
themselves. But the Americans who choose this peculiar manner of
seeing Paris must be actually just as bad. Mother and I were horrified,
and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. But
father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than
violence. He worries and fusses; he “nags,” as we used to say at school;
and, when mother and I are quite worn out, his triumph is assured.
Mother is usually worn out more easily than I, and she ends by siding
with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against
poor little me, I have to succumb. You should have heard the way
father went on about this “family” plan; he talked to every one he saw
about it; he used to go round to the banker’s and talk to the people
there – the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas
about it with the waiters at the hotel. He said it would be more safe,
more respectable, more economical; that I should perfect my French;
that mother would learn how a French household is conducted; that
he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. They were
none of them good, but that made no difference. It’s all humbug, his
talking about economy, when every one knows that business in
America has completely recovered, that the prostration1 is all over,
and that immense fortunes are being made. We have been
economising for the last five years, and I supposed we came abroad to
reap the benefits of it.
As for my French, it is quite as perfect as I want it to be. (I
assure you I am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when I get a
little more practice in the genders and the idioms, I shall do very well
in this respect.) To make a long story short, however, father carried his
point, as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and,
after holding out alone for three days, I told them to do with me what
they pleased! Father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in
Paris to argue with me. You know he is like the schoolmaster in
Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village”2 – “e’en though vanquished, he would
argue still.” He and mother went to look at some seventeen families
(they had got the addresses somewhere), while I retired to my sofa,
and would have nothing to do with it. At last they made arrangements,
and I was transported to the establishment from which I now write
you. I write you from the bosom of a Parisian ménage – from the
depths of a second-rate boarding-house.
Father only left Paris after he had seen us what he calls
comfortably settled here, and had informed Madame de Maisonrouge
(the mistress of the establishment – the head of the “family”) that he
wished my French pronunciation especially attended to. The
pronunciation, as it happens, is just what I am most at home in; if he
had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense.
But poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since
he has been in Europe. He will be absent, however, for three months,
and mother and I shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less
intense. I must confess that we breathe more freely than I expected,
in this place, where we have been for about a week. I was sure, before
we came, that it would prove to be an establishment of the lowest
description; but I must say that, in this respect, I am agreeably
disappointed. The French are so clever that they know even how to
manage a place of this kind. Of course it is very disagreeable to live
with strangers, but as, after all, if I were not staying with Madame de
Maisonrouge I should not be living in the Faubourg St. Germain, I don’t
know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss
to be here.
1
prostration (economic) crisis (literally, lying flat on the ground)
“The Deserted Village” an extremely popular pastoral poem (1770) by Oliver
Goldsmith (1730-1774)
2
Our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is
remarkably good. Mamma thinks the whole thing – the place and the
people, the manners and customs – very amusing; but mamma is very
easily amused. As for me, you know, all that I ask is to be let alone, and
not to have people’s society forced upon me. I have never wanted for
society of my own choosing, and, so long as I retain possession of my
faculties, I don’t suppose I ever shall. As I said, however, the place is
very well managed, and I succeed in doing as I please, which, you
know, is my most cherished pursuit. Madame de Maisonrouge has a
great deal of tact – much more than poor father. She is what they call
here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with
style. She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though
she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinnertable, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and
looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking
of a dame de comptoir blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant.
I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a dame de
comptoir. I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty
things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder
us. She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse
herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing
all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken
French at her. Some day she will poison the soup or the vin rouge; but
I hope that will not be until after mother and I shall have left her. She
has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are
meagre imitations of herself.
The “family,” for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved
compatriots, and of still more beloved Englanders. There is an Englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. He
is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising,
especially to us Americans; and I hope to have a chance of biting his
head off before long. The sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very
nice; but, in costume, she is Britannia incarnate. There is a very
pleasant little Frenchman – when they are nice they are charming –
and a German doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white
bull; and two Americans, besides mother and me. One of them is a
young man from Boston, – an æsthetic young man, who talks about its
being “a real Corot1 day,” etc., and a young woman – a girl, a female, I
don’t know what to call her – from Vermont, or Minnesota, or some
such place. This young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of
artless Yankeeism that I ever encountered; she is really too horrible. I
have been three times to Clémentine about your underskirt, etc.
1
Corot Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot (1796-1875) was a French landscape painter,
famous for his use of light
IV
FROM LOUIS LEVERETT, IN PARIS,
TO HARVARD TREMONT, IN BOSTON
September 25th
My dear Harvard – I have carried out my plan, of which I gave you a
hint in my last, and I only regret that I should not have done it before.
It is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the
world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. There is a
want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so
many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange Old World,
and I was distressed to find how far I, myself; had been led along the
dusty, beaten track. I had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside
into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see
what I should discover. But the opportunity had always been missing;
somehow, I never meet those opportunities that we hear about and
read about – the things that happen to people in novels and
biographies. And yet I am always on the watch to take advantage of
any opening that may present itself; I am always looking out for
experiences, for sensations – I might almost say for adventures.
The great thing is to live, you know – to feel, to be conscious
of one’s possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and
insensibly, like a letter through the post-office. There are times, my
dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything –
capable de tout, as they say here – of the greatest excesses as well as
the greatest heroism. Oh, to be able to say that one has lived – qu’on
a vécu, as they say here – that idea exercises an indefinable attraction
for me. You will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to
make people believe you! And, then, I don’t want any second-hand,
spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace – that
leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it! But I am afraid I
shock you, perhaps even frighten you.
If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street
circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For
yourself; you will know that I have always had an intense desire to see
something of real French life. You are acquainted with my great
sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into the
French way of looking at life. I sympathise with the artistic
temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you
thought my own temperament too artistic. I don’t think that in Boston
there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to
make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can’t
live – on ne peut pas vivre, as they say here. I don’t mean one can’t
reside – for a great many people manage that; but one can’t live
æsthetically – I may almost venture to say, sensuously. This is why I
have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so æsthetic,
so sensuous. I am so sorry that Théophile Gautier1 has passed away; I
should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that I owe
him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time
I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not æsthetic, and who used
to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. If I had
gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go
clandestinely – en cachette, as they say here; and that is not my
nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, naïvement, au grand jour.
That is the great thing – to be free, to be frank, to be naïf. Doesn’t
Matthew Arnold say that somewhere – or is it Swinburne, or Pater2?
When I was with the Johnsons everything was superficial; and,
as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right
and wrong. They were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and
what is life but an art? Pater has said that so well, somewhere. With
the Johnsons I am afraid I lost many opportunities; the tone was gray
and cottony, I might almost say woolly. But now, as I tell you, I have
determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into European
life, and judge it without Johnsonian prejudices. I have taken up my
residence in a French family, in a real Parisian house. You see I have
the courage of my opinions; I don’t shrink from carrying out my theory
that the great thing is to live.
You know I have always been intensely interested in Balzac,
who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost lurid pictures
of Parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the
old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. I am only
sorry that my new friends – my French family – do not live in the old
city – au cœur du vieux Paris, as they say here. They live only in the
Boulevard Haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this
they have a great deal of the Balzac tone. Madame de Maisonrouge
belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in France; but she
has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment
in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten
track, who have the sense of local colour – she explains it herself; she
expresses it so well – in short, to open a sort of boarding-house. I
don’t see why I should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the
correlative of the term pension bourgeoise, employed by Balzac in
the Père Goriot. Do you remember the pension bourgeoise of
Madame Vauquer née de Conflans3? But this establishment is not at
all like that: and indeed it is not at all bourgeois; there is something
distinguished, something aristocratic, about it. The Pension Vauquer
1
Théophile Gautier (1811-1872) influential French author and critic, who had
started his career as a romantic and later became a theoretician of the doctrine of
l’art pour l’art
2 Matthew Arnold, Swinburne, Pater famous Victorian writers; Matthew Arnold
(1822-1888) attacked the ugliness and spiritual emptiness of Victorian society;
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) and Walter Pater (1839-1894) are
specifically associated with the Esthetic Movement
3 Madame Vauquer née de Conflans character in Balzac’s Le Père Goriot (1835) who
owns a boarding house
was dark, brown, sordid, graisseuse; but this is in quite a different
tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost
morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines.
Madame de Maisonrouge reminds me of Madame Hulot – do you
remember “la belle Madame Hulot?” – in Les Parents Pauvres1. She
has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little
suggestion of hidden things in her life; but I have always been
sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity.
I am rather disappointed, I confess, in the society I find here;
it is not so local, so characteristic, as I could have desired. Indeed, to
tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that. We are French, we are
English, we are American, we are German; and, I believe, there are
some Russians and Hungarians expected. I am much interested in the
study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong
points, the weak points, the point of view of each. It is interesting to
shift one’s point of view – to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking
at life.
The American types here are not, I am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself, are exclusively feminine.
We are thin, my dear Harvard; we are pale, we are sharp. There is
something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our
composition in richness. We lack temperament; we don’t know how
to live; nous ne savons pas vivre, as they say here. The American
temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and I often think
that my temperament is not at all American) by a young girl and her
mother, and another young girl without her mother – without her
mother or any attendant or appendage whatever. These young girls
are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a
certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don’t go far; they
don’t keep all they promise; they don’t satisfy the imagination. They
are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it
is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows2 (that is, I mean in the
young lady who has her mother) that are abundant. They are very
different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of
high fashion, from New York; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed,
straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of New
England. And yet they are very much alike too – more alike than they
would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold,
mistrustful, deprecating looks. They are both specimens of the
emancipated young American girl – practical, positive, passionless,
subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. And
yet, as I say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; I like to talk
with them, to study them.
1
2
reference to another novel by Balzac
furbelows frills, trimmings, decorations on a woman’s garment
The fair New Yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me
if every one in Boston talks like me – if every one is as “intellectual” as
your poor correspondent. She is for ever throwing Boston up at me; I
can’t get rid of Boston. The other one rubs it into me too; but in a
different way; she seems to feel about it as a good Mahommedan feels
toward Mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole
human race. Poor little Boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name!
But this New England maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is
travelling all over Europe alone – “to see it,” she says, “for herself.” For
herself! What can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such
visions! She looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way,
with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene
abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without
tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious
suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless,
fearless, charmless! It is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get
the right point of view, there is something rather striking.
By way of contrast, there is a lovely English girl, with eyes as
shy as violets, and a voice as sweet! She has a sweet Gainsborough1
head, and a great Gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of
it, which makes a shadow over her quiet English eyes. Then she has a
sage-green robe, “mystic, wonderful,” all embroidered with subtle
devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in
front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange,
iridescent2 buttons. The revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in
England, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal
buttons to make one dream – to donner à rêver, as they say here? I
think that a great æsthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light
will be kindled in England, for all the world to see. There are spirits
there that I should like to commune with; I think they would
understand me.
This gracious English maiden, with her clinging robes, her
amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step,
her carriage something mediæval and Gothic, in the details of her
person and dress, this lovely Evelyn Vane (isn’t it a beautiful name?) is
deeply, delightfully picturesque. She is much a woman – elle est bien
femme, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the
young girls I spoke of just now. Not much talk – a great, sweet silence.
Then the violet eye – the very eye itself seems to blush; the great
shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging,
clutching, pictured raiment! As I say, it is a very gracious, tender type.
She has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed
young Englishman. He is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic3.
1
Gainsborough Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788) was an English painter, famous
for his portraits
2 iridescent having shifting, rainbow-like colours
3 plastic capable of change and variation
V
FROM MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER
September 26th
You must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not
because I am in any trouble, but because I am getting on so well. If I
were in any trouble I don’t think I should write to you; I should just
keep quiet and see it through myself. But that is not the case at present
and, if I don’t write to you, it is because I am so deeply interested over
here that I don’t seem to find time. It was a real providence that
brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, I am able to
do much good work. I wonder how I find the time for all I do; but when
I think that I have only got a year in Europe, I feel as if I wouldn’t
sacrifice a single hour.
The obstacles I refer to are the disadvantages I have in learning
French, there being so many persons around me speaking English, and
that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a French family. It seems as
if you heard English everywhere; but I certainly didn’t expect to find it
in a place like this. I am not discouraged, however, and I talk French all
I can, even with the other English boarders. Then I have a lesson every
day from Miss Maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the
house), and French conversation every evening in the salon, from eight
to eleven, with Madame herself, and some friends of hers that often
come in. Her cousin, Mr. Verdier, a young French gentleman, is
fortunately staying with her, and I make a point of talking with him as
much as possible. I have extra private lessons from him, and I often go
out to walk with him. Some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the
opera. We have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries
in Paris together. Like most of the French, he converses with great
fluency, and I feel as if I should really gain from him. He is remarkably
handsome, and extremely polite – paying a great many compliments,
which, I am afraid, are not always sincere. When I return to Bangor I
will tell you some of the things he has said to me. I think you will
consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful in their way.
The conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often
remarkably brilliant, and I often wish that you, or some of the Bangor
folks, could be there to enjoy it. Even though you couldn’t understand
it I think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to
express so much. I sometimes think that at Bangor they don’t express
enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). It
seems as if, at Bangor, there were things that folks never tried to say;
but here, I have learned from studying French that you have no idea
what you can say, before you try. At Bangor they seem to give it up
beforehand; they don’t make any effort. (I don’t say this in the least
for William Platt, in particular.)
I am sure I don’t know what they will think of me when I get
back. It seems as if, over here, I had learned to come out with everything. I suppose they will think I am not sincere; but isn’t it more
sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? I have become
very good friends with every one in the house – that is (you see, I am
sincere), with almost every one. It is the most interesting circle I ever
was in. There’s a girl here, an American, that I don’t like so much as
the rest; but that is only because she won’t let me. I should like to like
her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but
she doesn’t seem to want to know me or to like me. She comes from
New York, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the
most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant – in this respect
would bear comparison with any one I have seen over here. But it
seems as if she didn’t want to recognise me or associate with me; as if
she wanted to make a difference between us. It is like people they call
“haughty” in books. I have never seen any one like that before – any
one that wanted to make a difference; and at first I was right down
interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. I
kept saying to myself all day, “haughty, haughty,” and I wished she
would keep on so. But she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then
I began to feel hurt. I couldn’t think what I have done, and I can’t think
yet. It’s as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one
say something. If some girls should behave like that I shouldn’t make
any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might
be so interesting if I once got to know her, that I think about it a good
deal. I am bound to find out what her reason is – for of course she has
got some reason; I am right down curious to know.
I went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; I thought
that was the best way. I told her I wanted to know her better, and
would like to come and see her in her room – they tell me she has got
a lovely room – and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps
she would tell me when I came. But she was more distant than ever,
and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned,
and that her room was too small to receive visitors. I suppose she
spoke the truth, but I am sure she has got some reason, all the same.
She has got some idea, and I am bound to find out before I go, if I have
to ask everybody in the house. I am right down curious. I wonder if she
doesn’t think me refined – or if she had ever heard anything against
Bangor? I can’t think it is that. Don’t you remember when Clara
Barnard went to visit New York, three years ago, how much attention
she received? And you know Clara is Bangor, to the soles of her shoes.
Ask William Platt – so long as he isn’t a native – if he doesn’t consider
Clara Barnard refined.
Apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another
American in the house – a gentleman from Boston – who is just
crowded with1 it. His name is Mr. Louis Leverett (such a beautiful
1
crowded with full of
name, I think), and he is about thirty years old. He is rather small, and
he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. But his
conversation is remarkably interesting, and I delight to listen to him –
he has such beautiful ideas. I feel as if it were hardly right, not being in
French; but, fortunately, he uses a great many French expressions. It’s
in a different style from the conversation of Mr. Verdier – not so
complimentary, but more intellectual. He is intensely fond of pictures,
and has given me a great many ideas about them which I should never
have gained without him; I shouldn’t have known where to look for
such ideas. He thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don’t make
near enough of them. They seem to make a good deal of them here;
but I couldn’t help telling him the other day that in Bangor I really don’t
think we do.
If I had any money to spend I would buy some and take them
back, to hang up. Mr. Leverett says it would do them good – not the
pictures, but the Bangor folks. He thinks everything of the French, too,
and says we don’t make nearly enough of them. I couldn’t help telling
him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves.
But it is very interesting to hear him go on about the French, and it is
so much gain to me, so long as that is what I came for. I talk to him as
much as I dare about Boston, but I do feel as if this were right down
wrong – a stolen pleasure.
I can get all the Boston culture I want when I go back, if I carry
out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside. I ought to direct
all my efforts to European culture now, and keep Boston to finish off.
But it seems as if I couldn’t help taking a peep now and then, in
advance – with a Bostonian. I don’t know when I may meet one again;
but if there are many others like Mr. Leverett there, I shall be certain
not to want when I carry out my dream. He is just as full of culture as
he can live. But it seems strange how many different sorts there are.
There are two of the English who I suppose are very cultivated
too; but it doesn’t seem as if I could enter into theirs so easily, though
I try all I can. I do love their way of speaking, and sometimes I feel
almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn French, and just
try to learn to speak our own tongue as these English speak it. It isn’t
the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious,
but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice.
It seems as if they must try a good deal to talk like that; but these
English that are here don’t seem to try at all, either to speak or do
anything else. They are a young lady and her brother. I believe they
belong to some noble family. I have had a good deal of intercourse
with them, because I have felt more free to talk to them than to the
Americans – on account of the language. It seems as if in talking with
them I was almost learning a new one.
I never supposed, when I left Bangor, that I was coming to
Europe to learn English! If I do learn it, I don’t think you will understand
me when I get back, and I don’t think you’ll like it much. I should be a
good deal criticised if I spoke like that at Bangor. However, I verily
believe Bangor is the most critical place on earth; I have seen nothing
like it over here. Tell them all I have come to the conclusion that they
are a great deal too fastidious. But I was speaking about this English
young lady and her brother. I wish I could put them before you. She is
lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring. In spite of this,
however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as I
couldn’t help noticing when one day I went out to walk with her. She
was ever so much looked at; but she didn’t seem to notice it, until at
last I couldn’t help calling attention to it. Mr. Leverett thinks
everything of it; he calls it the “costume of the future.” I should call it
rather the costume of the past – you know the English have such an
attachment to the past. I said this the other day to Madame de
Maisonrouge – that Miss Vane dressed in the costume of the past. De
l’an passé, vous voulez dire? said Madame, with her little French laugh
(you can get William Platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew
so much French).
You know I told you, in writing some time ago, that I had tried
to get some insight into the position of woman in England, and, being
here with Miss Vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to
get a little more. I have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn’t
seem able to give me much information. The first time I asked her she
told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father,
her eldest brother, her husband, etc. She told me her own position was
very good, because her father was some relation – I forget what – to a
lord. She thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the
position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it
were, it wouldn’t depend upon that of your relations, even your
nearest. I don’t know much about lords, and it does try my patience
(though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were
a matter of course that I should.
I feel as if it were right to ask her as often as I can if she doesn’t
consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn’t, and she
confesses that she doesn’t think she is equal to “Lady Something-orother,” who is the wife of that relation of her father. I try and persuade
her all I can that she is; but it seems as if she didn’t want to be
persuaded; and when I ask her if Lady So-and-so is of the same opinion
(that Miss Vane isn’t her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her
eyes, and says, “Of course she is!” When I tell her that this is right down
bad for Lady So-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn’t believe me, and the
only answer she will make is that Lady So-and-so is “extremely nice.” I
don’t believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn’t have such
ideas as that. I tell Miss Vane that at Bangor we think such ideas vulgar;
but then she looks as though she had never heard of Bangor. I often
want to shake her, though she is so sweet. If she isn’t angry with the
people who make her feel that way, I am angry for her. I am angry with
her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this
gives me some further insight into the subject. She thinks everything
of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him,
not only physically (for this is natural, as he is enormously tall and
strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually. She seems
unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise
what I have often heard – that if you are timid nothing will reason you
out of it.
Mr. Vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when I tell him, as I often think it right to do, that his sister
is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and,
perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in
Bangor, were to treat me as he treats this poor young girl, who has not
spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an
indignation-meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage
to the sanctity of womanhood – when I tell him all this, at breakfast or
dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the
table.
But at such a time as this there is always one person who
seems interested in what I say – a German gentleman, a professor,
who sits next to me at dinner, and whom I must tell you more about
another time. He is very learned, and has a great desire for
information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after
dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about
them. I have to think a little, sometimes, to know what I did say, or
what I do think. He takes you right up where you left off; and he is
almost as fond of discussing things as William Platt is. He is splendidly
educated, in the German style, and he told me the other day that he
was an “intellectual broom.” Well, if he is, he sweeps clean; I told him
that. After he has been talking to me I feel as if I hadn’t got a speck of
dust left in my mind anywhere. It’s a most delightful feeling. He says
he’s an observer; and I am sure there is plenty over here to observe.
But I have told you enough for to-day. I don’t know how much longer
I shall stay here; I am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if I
shouldn’t need all the time I have laid out. I suppose your cold weather
has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you. The
fall weather here is very dull and damp, and I feel very much as if I
should like to be braced up.
VI
FROM MISS EVELYN VANE, IN PARIS,
TO THE LADY AUGUSTA FLEMING, AT BRIGHTON
Paris, September 30th
Dear Lady Augusta – I am afraid I shall not be able to come to you on
January 7th, as you kindly proposed at Homburg. I am so very, very
sorry; it is a great disappointment to me. But I have just heard that it
has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for
a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to
Hyères1, where Georgina has been ordered for her lungs. She has not
been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather
has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to
have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and
saw some three or four doctors. They all of them ordered the south of
France, but they didn’t agree about the place; so that mamma herself
decided for Hyères, because it is the most economical. I believe it is
very dull, but I hope it will do Georgina good. I am afraid, however,
that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of
herself; I am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me
that all this month it has taken papa’s positive orders to make her stop
in-doors. She is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad,
and doesn’t seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to
– talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc. She expected to
begin to hunt in December, and wants to know whether anybody
keeps hounds at Hyères. Fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds
when her lungs are so bad! But I daresay that when she gets there she
will be glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense.
It may cure Georgina, but I am sure it will make the rest of us very ill.
Mamma, however, is only going to bring Mary and Gus and
Fred and Adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at Kingscote
until February (about the 3d), when they will go to Eastbourne for a
month with Miss Turnover, the new governess, who has turned out
such a very nice person. She is going to take Miss Travers, who has
been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger
children, to Hyères, and I believe some of the Kingscote servants. She
has perfect confidence in Miss T.; it is only a pity she has such an odd
name. Mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another
when she came; but papa thought she might object. Lady Battledown
makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives £5 more a
year for the purpose. I forget what it is she calls them; I think it’s
Johnson (which to me always suggests a lady’s maid). Governesses
shouldn’t have too pretty a name; they shouldn’t have a nicer name
than the family.
I suppose you heard from the Desmonds that I did not go back
to England with them. When it began to be talked about that Georgina
should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that I had better stop in
Paris for a month with Harold, so that she could pick me up on their way
to Hyères. It saves the expense of my journey to Kingscote and back, and
gives me the opportunity to “finish” a little in French.
You know Harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his French
for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon. He came to
live with some French people that take in young men (and others) for
this purpose; it’s a kind of coaching place, only kept by women. Mamma
had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that I was to come and
1
Hyères town in the south-east of France, at 4 km from the sea, famous for its palm
trees and extremely popular with the British
stop here with Harold. The Desmonds brought me and made the
arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it. Poor Harold was
naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated
me like an angel. He is getting on beautifully with his French; for though
I don’t think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet Harold is so
immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. I am afraid I learn
much less, but, fortunately, I have not to pass an examination – except
if mamma takes it into her head to examine me. But she will have so
much to think of with Georgina that I hope this won’t occur to her. If it
does, I shall be, as Harold says, in a dreadful funk.
This is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and
the Desmonds thought it exceedingly odd that mamma should wish me
to come here. As Mrs. Desmond said, it is because she is so very
unconventional. But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only
Harold remains good-natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the
caravan1 (that’s what he calls mamma and the children). The person
who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and
exceedingly foreign; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually
sending to my door to see if I want anything. The servants are not at all
like English servants, and come bursting in, the footman2 (they have only
one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the most sudden way.
Then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come. All this is very
uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyères. There, however,
fortunately, we shall have our own people.
There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing
Harold into fits of laughter. One is a dreadful little man who is always
sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. I don’t
believe he ever saw the sky except through the window pane. The
other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice
at Homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the
Devonshire turf. And then he talked for half an hour about the
Devonshire turf; which I thought such a very extraordinary subject.
Harold says he is mad. It is very strange to be living in this way with
people one doesn’t know. I mean that one doesn’t know as one knows
them in England.
The other Americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about
my own age, one of whom is rather nice. She has a mother; but the
mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. I
should like mamma to ask them to Kingscote, but I am afraid mamma
wouldn’t like the mother, who is rather vulgar. The other girl is rather
vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone. I think she is a kind of
schoolmistress; but the other girl (I mean the nicer one, with the
mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems. She has,
however, the most extraordinary opinions – wishes to do away with
1
caravan originally, a group of people (merchants, pilgrims…) travelling together for
safety
2 footman a uniformed servant who waits at table, answers the bell, sees people into
or out of their cards, etc.
the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that Arthur should have Kingscote
when papa dies, etc. I don’t see what it signifies to her that poor Arthur
should come into the property, which will be so delightful – except for
papa dying. But Harold says she is mad. He chaffs her tremendously
about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can’t
answer him, though she is rather clever too.
There is also a Frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something,
of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a German
professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore. I am
so very sorry about giving up my visit. I am afraid you will never ask me
again.
VII
FROM LÉON VERDIER, IN PARIS,
TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE
September 28th
My Dear Prosper – It is a long time since I have given you of my news,
and I don’t know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to
your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the
mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our
exaltations and depressions, and je t’eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps,
mon gros Prosper, and you always listened to me too imperturbably,
with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not
to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. Nous en sommes
nous flanquées, des confidences – in those happy days when my first
thought in seeing an adventure poindre à l’horizon was of the pleasure
I should have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am
happy; decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can
construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls
... three, my good Prosper – the mystic number – neither more nor
less. Take them and place thy insatiable little Léon in the midst of
them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the
motives of my felicity?
You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made
my fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return
into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal
legatee1. But I needn’t remind you that women are always for
something in the happiness of him who writes to thee – for something
in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. But don’t let
me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; ces demoiselles
have gone to join the serried2 ranks of their amiable predecessors.
1
2
universal legatee heir who receives the full inheritance
serried ranged closely side by side, with no gaps between
Excuse me – I comprehend your impatience. I will tell you of whom ces
demoiselles consist.
You have heard me speak of my cousine de Maisonrouge, that
grande belle femme, who, after having married, en secondes noces –
there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union
– a venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death
of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on
an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little
demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed to
bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask me how
she managed it, I can’t tell you; it’s no business of mine, and, à fortiori
none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirtyseven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry,
are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to
twenty and to seventeen). Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed
idea of opening a sort of pension for the entertainment and instruction
of the blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking
up a few stray particles of the language of Voltaire – or of Zola. The
idea lui a porté bonheur; the shop does a very good business. Until
within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but
lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused
itself to be felt. My cousin has undertaken them, regardless of
expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her – board and
lodging gratis – and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of
her pensionnaires. I am the extension, my good Prosper; I am the
embellishment! I live for nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the
prettiest English lips. The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows,
but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain1 for me.
Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three
separate pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays
extra. My cousin doesn’t give me a sou of the money; but I make bold,
nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well,
very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is
a little Anglaise, of about twenty – a little figure de keepsake2; the most
adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is
decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered
dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little
gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of
confidence – a confidence that I really feel some compunction3 in
betraying. She has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in
the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most
transparent, most liquid, carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face – by which I mean that she blushes – as
softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane.
1
gaining bargain a profitable arrangement
keepsake (Fr.) illustrated album, often given as a present or souvenir
3 compunction regret, scruple
2
Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public;
but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking elle ne demande
qu’à se laisser aller! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I
have given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have
reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am
bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less
advanced than with the others. Que voulez-vous? The English are
heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that’s all. The movement,
however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the
pottage1 simmer2. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well
occupied with her concurrentes. Celles-ci don’t keep me waiting, par
exemple!
These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the
national character to move fast. “All right – go ahead!” (I am learning
a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.) They go
ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up.
One of them is prettier than the other; but this latter (the one that
takes the private lessons) is really une fille prodigieuse. Ah, par
exemple, elle brûle ses vaisseux celle-la! She threw herself into my
arms the very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having
deprived me of that pleasure of gradation3, of carrying4 the defences,
one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place.
Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes
she gave me a rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d’Apollon, at
the Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then
we have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account.
Non, c’est une fille qui me dépasse.
The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut
up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that
account elle y met plus de façons. She doesn’t knock about Paris with
me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the petit
salon, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o’clock,
when every one is à la promenade. She is admirable, this little one; a
little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the
whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to her. She takes
the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour
afterwards, reassures you completely – oh, completely!
However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that
is the most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are
the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on
the part of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the petit salon, but
with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one
in the house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are not, my good
1
pottage soup, esp. a thick soup
simmer (of a liquid) to make a steady, low bubbling sound while heated at or just
below the boiling point
3 gradation progression, moving step by step
4 carry to take, to capture
2
Prosper; we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity.
My cousine is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. Miss
Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn’t the adorable
rougeurs of the little Anglaise. But she has bright, keen, inquisitive
eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding
up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most
finished piece of impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the tour du
monde entirely alone, without even a soubrette1 to carry the ensign,
for the purpose of seeing for herself à quoi s’en tenir sur les hommes
et les choses – on les hommes particularly. Dis donc, Prosper, it must
be a drôle de pays over there, where young persons animated by this
ardent curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables2, some
day, thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that
we should go and find them chez elles, as that they should come out
here after us. Dis donc, mon gros Prosper ...
VIII
FROM DR. RUDOLF STAUB, IN PARIS,
TO DR. JULIUS HIRSCH, AT GÖTTINGEN
My dear brother in Science – I resume my hasty notes, of which I sent
you the first instalment some weeks ago. I mentioned then that I
intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and
national. It was kept by a Pomeranian3, and the waiters, without
exception, were from the Fatherland. I fancied myself at Berlin, Unter
den Linden4, and I reflected that, having taken the serious step of
visiting the head-quarters of the Gallic genius, I should try and project
myself, as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part
the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity. It
seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge
without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as
slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different
combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the
country.
I accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure
French extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings
of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the Parisian
system of sense-gratification, by providing food and lodging for a
limited number of distinguished strangers. I should have preferred to
have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery,
1
soubrette a maidservant
turn the tables to reverse a situation and gain the upper hand
3 Pomeranian a native or inhabitant of Pomerania (region bordering the Baltic sea in
the north west of Poland and the north east of Germany)
4 Unter den Linden (literally, under the lime trees, Fr. tilleul) reference to a famous
boulevard in central Berlin
2
of very good appearance, which I speedily discovered in the same
street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself,
was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman
with a mathematical head), and I have consoled myself for the extra
expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity
to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners
of my companions, and of observing the French nature at a peculiarly
physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the taste,
which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of
exhalation1, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and
perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable
by a properly adjusted instrument.
I have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (I mean the
one I carry in my good square German head), and I am not afraid of
losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon
the plate of my observation. A prepared surface is what I need, and I
have prepared my surface.
Unfortunately here, also, I find the individual native in the
minority. There are only four French persons in the house – the
individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women,
and one a man. This preponderance of the feminine element is,
however, in itself characteristic, as I need not remind you what an
abnormally-developed part this sex has played in French history. The
remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but I hesitate to classify
him so superficially. He appears to me less human than simian2, and
whenever I hear him talk I seem to myself to have paused in the street
to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols3 of
a hairy homunculus4 form an accompaniment.
I mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage,
in consequence of my German nationality5, had proved completely
unfounded. No one seems to know or to care what my nationality is,
and I am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion
of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too
narrowly. This, I confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and
I have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the
anomaly. My determination to take up my abode in a French interior
was largely dictated by the supposition that I should be substantially
disagreeable to its inmates. I wished to observe the different forms
taken by the irritation that I should naturally produce; for it is under
the influence of irritation that the French character most completely
expresses itself. My presence, however, does not appear to operate as
a stimulus, and in this respect I am materially disappointed. They treat
me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated
1
exhalation the act of exhaling (breathing out), evaporation, emanation
simian like, or having the characteristics of, an ape or monkey
3 gambols leaping about in a playful manner
4 homunculus (Lat.) ‘little human’
5 this is the first of several references to the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871)
2
differently, I was resigned in advance to be treated worse. I have not,
as I say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is
the explanation to which I tend. The French are so exclusively occupied
with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the
German personality presented to them by the war of 1870, they have
at present no distinct apprehension of its existence. They are not very
sure that there are any Germans; they have already forgotten the
convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years
ago. A German was something disagreeable, which they determined
to keep out of their conception of things. I therefore think that we are
wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the revanche; the
French nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom
in it.
The English-speaking specimens, too, I have not been willing
to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these I have paid
special attention to the American varieties, of which I find here several
singular examples. The two most remarkable are a young man who
presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence;
reminding me strongly of some diminutive1 Hellenised Roman of the
third century. He is an illustration of the period of culture in which the
faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that
of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the
mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog. I
learn from him that there is an immense number of Americans exactly
resembling him, and that the city of Boston, indeed, is almost
exclusively composed of them. (He communicated this fact very
proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little
perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.)
What strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of
my knowledge – and you know what my knowledge is – unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at
an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the
mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to
rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and
ornamental) ripeness. With the Americans, indeed, the crudity and the
rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in
the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which
is the other; they are inextricably mingled. I prefer the talk of the
French homunculus; it is at least more amusing.
It is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely
developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful AngloSaxon family. I find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young
woman from the State of Maine, in the province of New England, with
whom I have had a good deal of conversation. She differs somewhat
from the young man I just mentioned, in that the faculty of production,
of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and
1
diminutive very small
vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation. But
unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits
are similarly those of a Roman lady of the lower Empire. She makes no
secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of
licentious behaviour. As the opportunities she finds in her own country
do not satisfy her, she has come to Europe “to try,” as she says, “for
herself.” It is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a
cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself
in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the
judgment of a society.
Another observation which pushes me to the same induction
– that of the premature vitiation1 of the American population – is the
attitude of the Americans whom I have before me with regard to each
other. There is another young lady here, who is less abnormally
developed than the one I have just described, but who yet bears the
stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness2.
These three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon
each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me,
secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical
American. A type that has lost itself before it has been fixed – what can
you look for from this?
Add to this that there are two young Englanders in the house,
who hate all the Americans in a lump, making between them none of
the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon,
and you will, I think, hold me warranted in believing that, between
precipitate decay and internecine3 enmities, the English-speaking
family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the
prospect of general pervasiveness, to which I alluded above, will
brighten for the deep-lunged children of the Fatherland!
IX
MIRANDA HOPE TO HER MOTHER
October 22nd
Dear Mother – I am off in a day or two to visit some new country; I
haven’t yet decided which. I have satisfied myself with regard to
France, and obtained a good knowledge of the language. I have
enjoyed my visit to Madame de Maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if I
were leaving a circle of real friends. Everything has gone on beautifully
up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if I were
their own sister, especially Mr. Verdier, the French gentleman, from
whom I have gained more than I ever expected (in six weeks), and with
1
vitiation corruption, loss of quality
effeteness degeneration
3 internecine causing a general massacre with victims on all sides
2
whom I have promised to correspond. So you can imagine me dashing
off the most correct French letters; and, if you don’t believe it, I will
keep the rough draft to show you when I go back.
The German gentleman is also more interesting, the more you
know him; it seems sometimes as if I could fairly drink in his ideas. I
have found out why the young lady from New York doesn’t like me! It
is because I said one day at dinner that I admired to go to the Louvre.
Well, when I first came, it seemed as if I did admire everything!
Tell William Platt his letter has come. I knew he would have to
write, and I was bound I would make him! I haven’t decided what
country I will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose
from. But I shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty
of fresh experiences.
Dearest mother, my money holds out, and it is most
interesting!
Lahiri, Jhumpa “Interpreter of Maladies” (1999)
At the tea stall1 Mr. and Mrs. Das bickered2 about who should take Tina
to the toilet. Eventually Mrs. Das relented3 when Mr. Das pointed out
that he had given the girl her bath the night before. In the rearview
mirror Mr. Kapasi watched as Mrs. Das emerged slowly from his bulky4
white Ambassador5, dragging6 her shaved, largely bare legs across the
back seat. She did not hold the little girl’s hand as they walked to the
rest room.
They were on their way to see the Sun Temple7at Konarak. It
was a dry, bright Saturday, the mid-July heat tempered by a steady
ocean breeze, ideal weather for sightseeing. Ordinarily Mr. Kapasi
would not have stopped so soon along the way, but less than five
minutes after he’d picked up the family that morning in front of Hotel
Sandy Villa, the little girl had complained. The first thing Mr. Kapasi
had noticed when he saw Mr. and Mrs. Das, standing with their
children under the portico of the hotel, was that they were very young,
perhaps not even thirty. In addition to Tina they had two boys, Ronny
and Bobby, who appeared very close in age and had teeth covered in
a network of flashing silver wires8. The family looked Indian but
dressed as foreigners did, the children in stiff, brightly colored clothing
and caps with translucent visors. Mr. Kapasi was accustomed to
foreign tourists; he was assigned to them regularly because he could
speak English. Yesterday he had driven an elderly couple from
Scotland, both with spotted faces and fluffy9 white hair so thin it
exposed their sunburnt scalps. In comparison, the tanned, youthful
faces of Mr. and Mrs. Das were all the more striking. When he’d
introduced himself, Mr. Kapasi had pressed his palms together in
greeting, but Mr. Das squeezed hands like an American so that Mr.
Kapasi felt it in his elbow. Mrs. Das, for her part, had flexed10 one side
Text based on: Lahiri, Jhumpa. 2000. Interpreter of maladies. London: Flamingo.
Many thanks are due to Charlotte Kinard, whose bachelor paper in English literature
(UNamur, 2011-2012) provided the basis for the present edition.
1
stall a table or small shop with an open front that people sell things from, esp at a
market; a stand
2 bicker to argue about things that are not important
3 relent to finally agree to sth after refusing
4 bulky large and difficult to move or carry
5 Ambassador a car of Indian origin
6 drag to pull sby or sth along with effort and difficulty
7 Sun Temple 13th century Sun Temple at Konark (Bay of Bengal); it is a World
Heritage Site and one of the Seven Wonders of India
8 wire metal in the form of thin thread (here: dental braces)
9 fluffy like fluff, covered in fluff (fluff : small pieces of wool, cotton, etc. that gather
on clothes and other surfaces)
10 flex to bend or move (a muscle or a limb)
Lahiri “Interpreter of Maladies” (2)
of her mouth, smiling dutifully at Mr. Kapasi, without displaying any
interest in him.
As they waited at the tea stall, Ronny, who looked like the
older of the two boys, clambered1 suddenly out of the back seat,
intrigued by a goat tied to a stake in the ground.
“Don’t touch it,” Mr. Das said. He glanced up from his paperback tour book, which said “INDIA” in yellow letters and looked as if it
had been published abroad. His voice, somehow tentative and a little
shrill, sounded as though it had not yet settled into maturity.
“I want to give it a piece of gum,” the boy called back as he
2
trotted ahead.
Mr. Das stepped out of the car and stretched his legs by
squatting3 briefly to the ground. A clean-shaven man, he looked
exactly like a magnified version of Ronny. He had a sapphire blue visor,
and was dressed in shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. The camera slung
around his neck, with an impressive telephoto lens and numerous
buttons and markings, was the only complicated thing he wore. He
frowned, watching as Ronny rushed toward the goat, but appeared to
have no intention of intervening. “Bobby, make sure that your brother
doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“I don’t feel like it,” Bobby said, not moving. He was sitting in
the front seat beside Mr. Kapasi, studying a picture of the elephant god
taped to the glove compartment.
“No need to worry,” Mr. Kapasi said. “They are quite tame4.”
Mr. Kapasi was forty-six years old, with receding hair that had gone
completely silver, but his butterscotch5 complexion6 and his unlined
brow7, which he treated in spare moments to dabs of lotus-oil balm,
made it easy to imagine what he must have looked like at an earlier
age. He wore gray trousers and a matching jacket-style shirt, tapered
at the waist, with short sleeves and a large pointed collar, made of a
thin but durable synthetic material. He had specified both the cut and
the fabric to his tailor – it was his preferred uniform for giving tours
because it did not get crushed8 during his long hours behind the wheel.
Through the windshield he watched as Ronny circled around the goat,
touched it quickly on its side, then trotted back to the car.
“You left India as a child?” Mr. Kapasi asked when Mr. Das had
settled once again into the passenger seat.
1
clamber to climb or move with difficulty, using your hands and feet
trot to run or walk fast, taking short quick steps
3 squat to sit on your heels with your knees bent up close to your body
4 tame not afraid of people, and used to living with them
5 butterscotch a type of hard pale brown sweet/candy made by boiling butter and
brown sugar together
6 complexion the natural color and condition of the skin on a person’s face
7 brow the forehead
8 crush to press or to squeeze sth so hard that it is damaged or injured, or loses its
shape
2
“Oh, Mina and I were both born in America,” Mr. Das announced with an air of sudden confidence. “Born and raised. Our
parents live here now, in Assansol1. They retired. We visit them every
couple years.” He turned to watch as the little girl ran toward the car,
the wide purple bows of her sundress flopping on her narrow brown
shoulders. She was holding to her chest a doll with yellow hair that
looked as if it had been chopped2, as a punitive measure, with a pair
of dull scissors. “This is Tina’s first trip to India, isn’t it, Tina?”
“I don’t have to go to the bathroom anymore,” Tina announced.
“Where’s Mina?” Mr. Das asked.
Mr. Kapasi found it strange that Mr. Das should refer to his
wife by her first name when speaking to the little girl. Tina pointed to
where Mrs. Das was purchasing something from one of the shirtless
men who worked at the tea stall. Mr. Kapasi heard one of the shirtless
men sing a phrase from a popular Hindi love song as Mrs. Das walked
back to the car, but she did not appear to understand the words of the
song, for she did not express irritation, or embarrassment, or react in
any other way to the man’s declarations.
He observed her. She wore a red-and-white-checkered skirt
that stopped above her knees, slip-on shoes with a square wooden
heel, and a close-fitting blouse styled like a man’s undershirt. The
blouse was decorated at chest-level with a calico3 appliqué4 in the
shape of a strawberry. She was a short woman, with small hands like
paws5, her frosty pink fingernails painted to match her lips, and was
slightly plump6 in her figure. Her hair, shorn7 only a little longer than
her husband’s, was parted far to one side. She was wearing large dark
brown sunglasses with a pinkish tint8 to them, and carried a big straw
bag, almost as big as her torso, shaped like a bowl, with a water bottle
poking out of it. She walked slowly, carrying some puffed rice tossed
with peanuts and chili peppers in a large packet made from
newspapers. Mr. Kapasi turned to Mr. Das.
“Where in America do you live?”
“New Brunswick, New Jersey.”
“Next to New York?”
“Exactly. I teach middle school there.”
“What subject?”
“Science. In fact, every year I take my students on a trip to the
Museum of Natural History in New York City. In a way we have a lot in
common, you could say, you and I. How long have you been a tour
guide, Mr. Kapasi?”
1
Assansol a mining, industrial and commercial metropolis in West Bengal
chop to cut sth into pieces with a sharp tool such as a knife
3 calico a type of rough cotton cloth that has a pattern printed on it
4 appliqué a type of needlework in which small pieces of cloth are sewn or stuck in a
pattern onto a larger piece
5 paw the foot of animal that has claws or nails
6 plump having a soft, round body; slightly fat
7 shear to cut off sby’s hair
8 tint a shade or small amount of a particular color; a faint color covering a surface
2
“Five years.”
Mrs. Das reached the car. “How long’s the trip?” she asked,
shutting the door.
“About two and a half hours,” Mr. Kapasi replied.
At this Mrs. Das gave an impatient sigh, as if she had been
traveling her whole life without pause. She fanned1 herself with a
folded Bombay film magazine written in English.
“I thought that the Sun Temple is only eighteen miles north of
Puri,” Mr. Das said, tapping on the tour book.
“The roads to Konarak are poor. Actually it is a distance of fiftytwo miles,” Mr. Kapasi explained.
Mr. Das nodded, readjusting the camera strap where it had
begun to chafe2 the back of his neck.
Before starting the ignition3, Mr. Kapasi reached back to make
sure the cranklike locks on the inside of each of the back doors were
secured. As soon as the car began to move the little girl began to play
with the lock on her side, clicking it with some effort forward and
backward, but Mrs. Das said nothing to stop her. She sat a bit
slouched4 at one end of the back seat, not offering her puffed rice to
anyone. Ronny and Tina sat on either side of her, both snapping bright
green gum.
“Look,” Bobby said as the car began to gather speed. He
pointed with his finger to the tall trees that lined the road. “Look.”
“Monkeys!” Ronny shrieked. “Wow!”
They were seated in groups along the branches, with shining
black faces, silver bodies, horizontal eyebrows, and crested5 heads.
Their long gray tails dangled like a series of ropes6 among the leaves.
A few scratched themselves with black leathery hands, or swung their
feet, staring as the car passed.
“We call them the hanuman,” Mr. Kapasi said. “They are quite
common in the area.”
As soon as he spoke, one of the monkeys leaped into the
middle of the road, causing Mr. Kapasi to brake suddenly. Another
bounced onto the hood of the car, then sprang away. Mr. Kapasi
beeped his horn. The children began to get excited, sucking in their
breath and covering their faces partly with their hands. They had never
seen monkeys outside of a zoo, Mr. Das explained. He asked Mr. Kapasi
to stop the car so that he could take a picture.
1
fan to make air blow onto sby or sth by waving a fan, your hand, etc.
chafe if skin chafes, or if sth chafes it, it becomes sore because the thing is rubbing
against it
3 ignition the electrical system of a vehicle that starts the engine
4 slouch to stand, sit or move in a lazy way, often with your shoulders and head bent
forward
5 crested used esp in names of birds or animals which have a crest, i.e. a group of
feathers that stand up on top of a bird’s head
6 rope very strong thick string made by twisting thinner strings, wires, etc. together
2
While Mr. Das adjusted his telephoto lens, Mrs. Das reached
into her straw bag and pulled out a bottle of colorless nail polish, which
she proceeded to stroke on the tip of her index finger.
The little girl stuck out a hand. “Mine too. Mommy, do mine too.”
“Leave me alone,” Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail and turning her body slightly. “You’re making me mess up.”
The little girl occupied herself by buttoning and unbuttoning a
pinafore1 on the doll’s plastic body.
“All set,” Mr. Das said, replacing the lens cap.
The car rattled2 considerably as it raced along the dusty road,
causing them all to pop up from their seats every now and then, but
Mrs. Das continued to polish her nails. Mr. Kapasi eased up on the
accelerator, hoping to produce a smoother ride. When he reached for
the gearshift3 the boy in front accommodated him by swinging his
hairless knees out of the way. Mr. Kapasi noted that this boy was
slightly paler than the other children. “Daddy, why is the driver sitting
on the wrong side in this car, too?” the boy asked.
“They all do that here, dummy,” Ronny said.
“Don’t call your brother a dummy,” Mr. Das said. He turned to
Mr. Kapasi. “In America, you know ... it confuses them.”
“Oh yes, I am well aware,” Mr. Kapasi said. As delicately as he
could, he shifted gears again, accelerating as they approached a hill in
the road. “I see it on Dallas, the steering wheels are on the left-hand
side.”
“What’s Dallas?” Tina asked, banging4 her now naked doll on
the seat behind Mr. Kapasi.
“It went off the air,” Mr. Das explained. “It’s a television show.”
They were all like siblings5, Mr. Kapasi thought as they passed
a row of date6 trees. Mr. and Mrs. Das behaved like an older brother
and sister, not parents. It seemed that they were in charge of the
children only for the day; it was hard to believe they were regularly
responsible for anything other than themselves. Mr. Das tapped on his
lens cap, and his tour book, dragging his thumbnail occasionally across
the pages so that they made a scraping sound. Mrs. Das continued to
polish her nails. She had still not removed her sunglasses. Every now
and then Tina renewed her plea7 that she wanted her nails done, too,
and so at one point Mrs. Das flicked a drop of polish on the little girl’s
finger before depositing the bottle back inside her straw bag.
“Isn’t this an air-conditioned car?” she asked, still blowing on
her hand. The window on Tina’s side was broken and could not be
rolled down.
1
pinafore a loose dress with no sleeves, usually worn over a blouse or sweater
rattle to make a series of short loud sounds as it moves somewhere
3 gearshift gear stick, used to change gear in a car
4 bang to hit sth in a way that makes a loud noise
5 siblings a brother or a sister
6 date a sweet sticky brown fruit that grows on a tree called a date palm, common in
North Africa and West Asia
7 plea an urgent emotional request
2
“Quit complaining,” Mr. Das said. “It isn’t so hot.”
“I told you to get a car with air-conditioning,” Mrs. Das continued. “Why do you do this, Raj, just to save a few stupid rupees1.
What are you saving us, fifty cents?”
Their accents sounded just like the ones Mr. Kapasi heard on
American television programs, though not like the ones on Dallas.
“Doesn’t it get tiresome, Mr. Kapasi, showing people the same
thing every day?” Mr. Das asked, rolling down his own window all the
way. “Hey, do you mind stopping the car. I just want to get a shot of
this guy.”
Mr. Kapasi pulled over to the side of the road as Mr. Das took
a picture of a barefoot man, his head wrapped in a dirty turban, seated
on top of a cart2 of grain sacks pulled by a pair of bullocks. Both the
man and the bullocks were emaciated. In the back seat Mrs. Das gazed3
out another window, at the sky, where nearly transparent clouds
passed quickly in front of one another.
“I look forward to it, actually,” Mr. Kapasi said as they continued on their way. “The Sun Temple is one of my favorite places. In
that way it is a reward for me. I give tours on Fridays and Saturdays
only. I have another job during the week.”
“Oh? Where?” Mr. Das asked.
“I work in a doctor’s office.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“I am not a doctor. I work with one. As an interpreter.” “What
does a doctor need an interpreter for?”
“He has a number of Gujarati4 patients. My father was Gujarati, but many people do not speak Gujarati in this area, including the
doctor. And so the doctor asked me to work in his office, interpreting
what the patients say.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Mr. Das said.
Mr. Kapasi shrugged. “It is a job like any other.”
“But so romantic,” Mrs. Das said dreamily, breaking her extended silence. She lifted her pinkish brown sunglasses and arranged
them on top of her head like a tiara. For the first time, her eyes met
Mr. Kapasi’s in the rearview mirror: pale, a bit small, their gaze fixed
but drowsy5.
1
rupees Indian money
cart a vehicle with two or four wheels that is pulled by a horse and used for
carrying loads
3 gaze to look steadily at sby or sth for a long time, either because you are interested
or surprised, or because you are thinking of sth else
4 Gujarat state in Western India (Wikipedia)
5 drowsy tired and almost asleep
2
Mr. Das craned to look at her. “What’s so romantic about it?”
“I don’t know. Something.” She shrugged, knitting her brows
together for an instant. “Would you like a piece of gum, Mr. Kapasi?”
she asked brightly. She reached into her straw bag and handed him a
small square wrapped in green-and-white-striped paper. As soon as
Mr. Kapasi put the gum in his mouth a thick sweet liquid burst onto his
tongue.
“Tell us more about your job, Mr. Kapasi,” Mrs. Das said.
“What would you like to know, madame?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, munching on some puffed rice
and licking the mustard oil from the corners of her mouth. “Tell us a
typical situation.” She settled back in her seat, her head tilted in a
patch of sun, and closed her eyes. “I want to picture what happens.”
“Very well. The other day a man came in with a pain in his throat.”
“Did he smoke cigarettes?”
“No. It was very curious. He complained that he felt as if there
were long pieces of straw stuck in his throat. When I told the doctor
he was able to prescribe the proper medication.”
“That’s so neat1.”
“Yes,” Mr. Kapasi agreed after some hesitation.
“So these patients are totally dependent on you,” Mrs. Das
said. She spoke slowly, as if she were thinking aloud. “In a way, more
dependent on you than the doctor.”
“How do you mean? How could it be?”
“Well, for example, you could tell the doctor that the pain felt
like a burning, not straw. The patient would never know what you had
told the doctor, and the doctor wouldn’t know that you had told the
wrong thing. It’s a big responsibility.”
“Yes, a big responsibility you have there, Mr. Kapasi,” Mr. Das
agreed.
Mr. Kapasi had never thought of his job in such complimentary terms. To him it was a thankless occupation. He found nothing
noble in interpreting people’s maladies, assiduously translating the
symptoms of so many swollen bones, countless cramps of bellies
and bowels2, spots on people’s palms that changed color, shape, or
size. The doctor, nearly half his age, had an affinity for bell-bottom3
trousers and made humorless jokes about the Congress party.
Together they worked in a stale4 little infirmary where Mr. Kapasi’s
smartly tailored clothes clung to him in the heat, in spite of the
blackened blades of a ceiling5 fan churning over their heads.
The job was a sign of his failings. In his youth he’d been a
devoted scholar of foreign languages, the owner of an impressive
collection of dictionaries. He had dreamed of being an interpreter for
1
neat good, excellent (American English)
bowels the large intestine, the lower part of the digestive tube
3 bell-bottom trousers/pants with legs that become very wide below the knee
4 stale no longer fresh, smelling unpleasant
5 ceiling the top inside the surface of a room
2
diplomats and dignitaries, resolving conflicts between people and
nations, settling disputes of which he alone could understand both
sides. He was a self-educated man. In a series of notebooks, in the
evenings before his parents settled his marriage, he had listed the
common etymologies of words, and at one point in his life he was
confident that he could converse, if given the opportunity, in English,
French, Russian, Portuguese, and Italian, not to mention Hindi,
Bengali, Orissi, and Gujarati. Now only a handful of European phrases
remained in his memory, scattered words for things like saucers and
chairs. English was the only non-Indian language he spoke fluently
anymore. Mr. Kapasi knew it was not a remarkable talent. Sometimes
he feared that his children knew better English than he did, just from
watching television. Still, it came in handy for the tours.
He had taken the job as an interpreter after his first son, at the
age of seven, contracted typhoid – that was how he had first made the
acquaintance of the doctor. At the time Mr. Kapasi had been teaching
English in a grammar school, and he bartered1 his skills as an
interpreter to pay the increasingly exorbitant medical bills. In the end
the boy had died one evening in his mother’s arms, his limbs2 burning
with fever, but then there was the funeral to pay for, and the other
children who were born soon enough, and the newer, bigger house,
and the good schools and tutors, and the fine shoes and the television,
and the countless other ways he tried to console his wife and to keep
her from crying in her sleep, and so when the doctor offered to pay
him twice as much as he earned at the grammar school, he accepted.
Mr. Kapasi knew that his wife had little regard for his career as an
interpreter. He knew it reminded her of the son she’d lost, and that
she resented3 the other lives he helped, in his own small way, to save.
If ever she referred to his position, she used the phrase “doctor’s assistant,” as if the process of interpretation were equal to taking
someone’s temperature, or changing a bedpan. She never asked him
about the patients who came to the doctor’s office, or said that his job
was a big responsibility.
For this reason it flattered Mr. Kapasi that Mrs. Das was so
intrigued by his job. Unlike his wife, she had reminded him of its
intellectual challenges. She had also used the word “romantic.” She
did not behave in a romantic way toward her husband, and yet she had
used the word to describe him. He wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Das were
a bad match, just as he and his wife were. Perhaps they, too, had little
in common apart from three children and a decade of their lives. The
signs he recognized from his own marriage were there – the bickering,
the indifference, the protracted4 silences. Her sudden interest in him,
an interest she did not express in either her husband or her children,
1
barter to exchange goods, property, services, etc. for goods, etc. without using
money
2 limb an arm or a leg, a similar part of an animal, such as a wing
3 resent to feel bitter or angry about sth, esp because you feel it is unfair
4 protracted lasting longer than expected or longer than usual
was mildly1 intoxicating2. When Mr. Kapasi thought once again about
how she had said “romantic,” the feeling of intoxication grew.
He began to check his reflection in the rearview mirror as he
drove, feeling grateful that he had chosen the gray suit that morning
and not the brown one, which tended to sag a little in the knees. From
time to time he glanced through the mirror at Mrs. Das. In addition to
glancing at her face he glanced at the strawberry between her breasts,
and the golden brown hollow in her throat. He decided to tell Mrs. Das
about another patient, and another: the young woman who had
complained of a sensation of raindrops in her spine, the gentleman
whose birthmark had begun to sprout hairs. Mrs. Das listened attentively, stroking her hair with a small plastic brush that resembled an
oval bed of nails, asking more questions, for yet another example. The
children were quiet, intent on spotting more monkeys in the trees, and
Mr. Das was absorbed by his tour book, so it seemed like a private
conversation between Mr. Kapasi and Mrs. Das. In this manner the
next half hour passed, and when they stopped for lunch at a roadside
restaurant that sold fritters3 and omelette sandwiches, usually something Mr. Kapasi looked forward to on his tours so that he could sit in
peace and enjoy some hot tea, he was disappointed. As the Das family
settled together under a magenta4 umbrella fringed with white and
orange tassels5, and placed their orders with one of the waiters who
marched about in tricornered caps, Mr. Kapasi reluctantly headed
toward a neighboring table.
“Mr. Kapasi, wait. There’s room here,” Mrs. Das called out.
She gathered Tina onto her lap6, insisting that he accompany
them. And so, together, they had bottled mango juice and sandwiches
and plates of onions and potatoes deep-fried in graham-flour7 batter8.
After finishing two omelette sandwiches Mr. Das took more pictures
of the group as they ate.
1
mildly slightly, not very much
intoxicating making you feel excited so that you cannot think clearly
3 fritter a piece of fruit, meat or vegetable that is covered with batter and fried
4 magenta reddish-purple in color
5 tassel a bunch of threads that are tied together at one end and hang from cushions,
curtains, clothes, etc. as a decoration
6 lap the top part of your legs that forms a flat surface when you are sitting down
7 graham-flour type of whole wheat flour that is involved in making white flour and
white bread (Wikipedia)
8 batter a mixture of eggs, milk and flour used in cooking to cover food such as fish or
chicken before you fry it, or to make pancakes
2
“How much longer?” he asked Mr. Kapasi as he paused to load
a new roll of film in the camera.
“About half an hour more.”
By now the children had gotten up from the table to look at
more monkeys perched in a nearby tree, so there was a considerable
space between Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi. Mr. Das placed the camera to
his face and squeezed one eye shut, his tongue exposed at one corner
of his mouth. “This looks funny. Mina, you need to lean in closer to Mr.
Kapasi.”
She did. He could smell a scent on her skin, like a mixture of
whiskey and rosewater. He worried suddenly that she could smell his
perspiration1, which he knew had collected beneath the synthetic
material of his shirt. He polished off2 his mango juice in one gulp and
smoothed his silver hair with his hands. A bit of the juice dripped onto
his chin. He wondered if Mrs. Das had noticed.
She had not. “What’s your address, Mr. Kapasi?” she inquired,
fishing for something inside her straw bag.
“You would like my address?”
“So we can send you copies,” she said. “Of the pictures.” She
handed him a scrap of paper which she had hastily ripped from a page
of her film magazine. The blank portion was limited, for the narrow
strip was crowded by lines of text and a tiny picture of a hero and
heroine embracing under a eucalyptus tree.
The paper curled as Mr. Kapasi wrote his address in clear,
careful letters. She would write to him, asking about his days interpreting at the doctor’s office, and he would respond eloquently,
choosing only the most entertaining anecdotes, ones that would make
her laugh out loud as she read them in her house in New Jersey. In
time she would reveal the disappointment of her marriage, and he his.
In this way their friendship would grow, and flourish. He would possess
a picture of the two of them, eating fried onions under a magenta
umbrella, which he would keep, he decided, safely tucked3 between
the pages of his Russian grammar. As his mind raced, Mr. Kapasi
experienced a mild and pleasant shock. It was similar to a feeling he
used to experience long ago when, after months of translating with
the aid of a dictionary, he would finally read a passage from a French
novel, or an Italian sonnet, and understand the words, one after
another, unencumbered4 by his own efforts. In those moments Mr.
Kapasi used to believe that all was right with the world, that all
struggles were rewarded, that all of life’s mistakes made sense in the
end. The promise that he would hear from Mrs. Das now filled him
with the same belief.
1
perspiration sweat
polish off to finish sth, esp food, quickly
3 tuck to put sth into a small space, esp to hide it or keep it safe or comfortable
4 unencumbered not having or carrying anything that makes you grow slowly
2
When he finished writing his address Mr. Kapasi handed her
the paper, but as soon as he did so he worried that he had either misspelled his name, or accidentally reversed the numbers of his postal
code. He dreaded the possibility of a lost letter, the photograph never
reaching him, hovering somewhere in Orissa1, close but ultimately
unattainable. He thought of asking for the slip of paper again, just to
make sure he had written his address accurately, but Mrs. Das had
already dropped it into the jumble of her bag.
They reached Konarak at two-thirty. The temple, made of sandstone,
was a massive pyramid-like structure in the shape of a chariot. It was
dedicated to the great master of life, the sun, which struck three sides
of the edifice as it made its journey each day across the sky. Twentyfour giant wheels were carved on the north and south sides of the
plinth2. The whole thing was drawn by a team of seven horses,
speeding as if through the heavens. As they approached, Mr. Kapasi
explained that the temple had been built between A.D. 1243 and 1255,
with the efforts of twelve hundred artisans, by the great ruler of the
Ganga dynasty, King Narasimhadeva the First, to commemorate his
victory against the Muslim army.
“It says the temple occupies about a hundred and seventy
acres of land,” Mr. Das said, reading from his book.
“It’s like a desert,” Ronny said, his eyes wandering across the
sand that stretched on all sides beyond the temple.
“The Chandrabhaga River once flowed one mile north of here.
It is dry now,” Mr. Kapasi said, turning off the engine.
They got out and walked toward the temple, posing first for
pictures by the pair of lions that flanked the steps. Mr. Kapasi led them
next to one of the wheels of the chariot, higher than any human being,
nine feet in diameter.
“‘The wheels are supposed to symbolize the wheel of life,’”
Mr. Das read. “‘They depict the cycle of creation, preservation, and
achievement of realization.’ Cool.” He turned the page of his book.
“‘Each wheel is divided into eight thick and thin spokes3, dividing the
day into eight equal parts. The rims4 are carved with designs of birds
and animals, whereas the medallions in the spokes are carved with
women in luxurious poses, largely erotic in nature.’”
What he referred to were the countless friezes5 of entwined6
naked bodies, making love in various positions, women clinging to the
necks of men, their knees wrapped eternally around their lovers’
thighs. In addition to these were assorted scenes from daily life, of
1
Orissa state of India, located on the east coast of India, by the Bay of Bengal
plinth a block of stone on which a column or statue stands
3 spoke one of the thin bars or long straight pieces of metal that connect the centre
of a wheel to its outer edge
4 rim the edge of sth in the shape of a circle
5 frieze a border that goes around the top of a room or building with pictures or
carvings on it
6 entwine to twist or wind sth around sth else
2
hunting and trading, of deer being killed with bows and arrows and
marching warriors holding swords1 in their hands.
It was no longer possible to enter the temple, for it had filled
with rubble2 years ago, but they admired the exterior, as did all the
tourists Mr. Kapasi brought there, slowly strolling along each of its
sides. Mr. Das trailed behind, taking pictures. The children ran ahead,
pointing to figures of naked people, intrigued in particular by the
Nagamithunas, the half-human, half-serpentine couples who were
said, Mr. Kapasi told them, to live in the deepest waters of the sea. Mr.
Kapasi was pleased that they liked the temple, pleased especially that
it appealed to Mrs. Das. She stopped every three or four paces, staring
silently at the carved loyers, and the processions of elephants, and the
topless female musicians beating on two-sided drums.
Though Mr. Kapasi had been to the temple countless times, it
occurred to him, as he, too, gazed at the topless women, that he had
never seen his own wife fully naked. Even when they had made love
she kept the panels of her blouse hooked together, the string of her
petticoat3 knotted around her waist. He had never admired the backs
of his wife’s legs the way he now admired those of Mrs. Das, walking
as if for his benefit alone. He had, of course, seen plenty of bare limbs
before, belonging to the American and European ladies who took his
tours. But Mrs. Das was different. Unlike the other women, who had
an interest only in the temple, and kept their noses buried in a
guidebook, or their eyes behind the lens of a camera, Mrs. Das had
taken an interest in him.
Mr. Kapasi was anxious to be alone with her, to continue their
private conversation, yet he felt nervous to walk at her side. She was
lost behind her sunglasses, ignoring her husband’s requests that she
pose for another picture, walking past her children as if they were
strangers. Worried that he might disturb her, Mr. Kapasi walked
ahead, to admire, as he always did, the three life-sized bronze avatars
of Surya, the sun god, each emerging from its own niche on the temple
facade to greet the sun at dawn, noon, and evening. They wore elaborate headdresses, their languid, elongated eyes closed, their bare
chests draped with carved chains and amulets. Hibiscus4 petals,
offerings from previous visitors, were strewn at their gray-green feet.
The last statue, on the northern wall of the temple, was Mr. Kapasi’s
favorite. This Surya had a tired expression, weary after a hard day of
work, sitting astride a horse with folded legs. Even his horse’s eyes
were drowsy. Around his body were smaller sculptures of women in
pairs, their hips thrust to one side.
1
sword a weapon with a long metal blade and a handle
rubble broken stones or bricks from a building or wall that has been destroyed or
damaged
3 petticoat a piece of women’s underwear like a thin dress or skirt, worn under a
dress or a skirt
4 hibiscus a tropical plant or bush with large brightly colored flowers
2
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Das asked. He was startled1 to see that she
was standing beside him.
“He is the Astachala-Surya,” Mr. Kapasi said. “The setting sun.”
“So in a couple of hours the sun will set right here?” She
slipped a foot out of one of her square-heeled shoes, rubbed her toes
on the back of her other leg.
“That is correct.”
She raised her sunglasses for a moment, then put them back
on again. “Neat.”
Mr. Kapasi was not certain exactly what the word suggested,
but he had a feeling it was a favorable response. He hoped that Mrs.
Das had understood Surya’s beauty, his power. Perhaps they would
discuss it further in their letters. He would explain things to her, things
about India, and she would explain things to him about America. In its
own way this correspondence would fulfill his dream, of serving as an
interpreter between nations. He looked at her straw bag, delighted
that his address lay nestled among its contents. When he pictured her
so many thousands of miles away he plummeted2, so much so that he
had an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around her, to freeze with
her, even for an instant, in an embrace witnessed by his favorite Surya.
But Mrs. Das had already started walking.
“When do you return to America?” he asked, trying to sound
placid.
“In ten days.”
He calculated: A week to settle in, a week to develop the
pictures, a few days to compose her letter, two weeks to get to India
by air. According to his schedule, allowing room for delays, he would
hear from Mrs. Das in approximately six weeks’ time.
The family was silent as Mr. Kapasi drove them back, a little past fourthirty, to Hotel Sandy Villa. The children had bought miniature granite
versions of the chariot’s wheels at a souvenir stand, and they turned
them round in their hands. Mr. Das continued to read his book. Mrs.
Das untangled Tina’s hair with her brush and divided it into two little
ponytails.
Mr. Kapasi was beginning to dread3 the thought of dropping
them off. He was not prepared to begin his six-week wait to hear from
Mrs. Das. As he stole glances at her in the rearview mirror, wrapping
elastic bands around Tina’s hair, he wondered how he might make the
tour last a little longer. Ordinarily he sped back to Puri using a shortcut,
eager to return home, scrub4 his feet and hands with sandalwood
soap, and enjoy the evening newspaper and a cup of tea that his wife
would serve him in silence. The thought of that silence, something to
1
startle to surprise sby suddenly in a way that slightly shocks or frightens them
plummet to fall suddenly from a high level or position
3 dread to be very afraid of sth
4 scrub to clean sth by rubbing it hard, perhaps with a brush and usually with soap
and water
2
which he’d long been resigned, now oppressed him. It was then that
he suggested visiting the hills at Udayagiri and Khandagiri, where a
number of monastic dwellings were hewn1 out of the ground, facing
one another across a defile2. It was some miles away, but well worth
seeing, Mr. Kapasi told them.
“Oh yeah, there’s something mentioned about it in this book,”
Mr. Das said. “Built by a Jain king or something.”
“Shall we go then?” Mr. Kapasi asked. He paused at a turn in
the road. “It’s to the left.”
Mr. Das turned to look at Mrs. Das. Both of them shrugged.
“Left, left,” the children chanted.
Mr. Kapasi turned the wheel, almost delirious with relief. He
did not know what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived
at the hills. Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had.
Perhaps he would compliment her strawberry shirt, which he found
irresistibly becoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a
picture, he would take her hand.
He did not have to worry. When they got to the hills, divided
by a steep3 path thick with trees, Mrs. Das refused to get out of the
car. All along the path, dozens of monkeys were seated on stones, as
well as on the branches of the trees. Their hind legs4 were stretched
out in front and raised to shoulder level, their arms resting on their
knees.
“My legs are tired,” she said, sinking low in her seat. “I’ll stay
here.”
“Why did you have to wear those stupid shoes?” Mr. Das said.
“You won’t be in the pictures.”
“Pretend I’m there.”
“But we could use one of these pictures for our Christmas card
this year. We didn’t get one of all five of us at the Sun Temple. Mr.
Kapasi could take it.”
“I’m not coming. Anyway, those monkeys give me the creeps5.”
“But they’re harmless,” Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi.
“Aren’t they?”
“They are more hungry than dangerous,” Mr. Kapasi said. “Do
not provoke them with food, and they will not bother you.”
Mr. Das headed up the defile with the children, the boys at his
side, the little girl on his shoulders. Mr. Kapasi watched as they crossed
paths with a Japanese man and woman, the only other tourists there,
who paused for a final photograph, then stepped into a nearby car and
drove away. As the car disappeared out of view some of the monkeys
called out, emitting soft whooping6 sounds, and then walked on their
1
hew to make or shape sth large by cutting
defile a narrow way through mountains
3 steep rising or falling quickly, not gradually
4 hind legs the hind legs or feet of an animal with four legs are those at the back
5 give sby the creeps to make sby feel nervous and slightly frightened, esp because
sby or sth is unpleasant or strange
6 whoop loud cry expressing joy, excitement, etc.
2
flat black hands and feet up the path. At one point a group of them
formed a little ring around Mr. Das and the children. Tina screamed in
delight. Ronny ran in circles around his father. Bobby bent down and
picked up a fat stick on the ground. When he extended it, one of the
monkeys approached him and snatched1 it, then briefly beat the
ground.
“I’ll join them,” Mr. Kapasi said, unlocking the door on his side.
“There is much to explain about the caves.”
“No. Stay a minute,” Mrs. Das said. She got out of the back
seat and slipped in beside Mr. Kapasi. “Raj has his dumb book anyway.”
Together, through the windshield, Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi watched
as Bobby and the monkey passed the stick back and forth between
them.
“A brave little boy,” Mr. Kapasi commented.
“It’s not so surprising,” Mrs. Das said.
“No?”
“He’s not his.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Raj’s. He’s not Raj’s son.”
Mr. Kapasi felt a prickle2 on his skin. He reached into his shirt
pocket for the small tin of lotus-oil balm he carried with him at all
times, and applied it to three spots on his forehead. He knew that Mrs.
Das was watching him, but he did not turn to face her. Instead he
watched as the figures of Mr. Das and the children grew smaller,
climbing up the steep path, pausing every now and then for a picture,
surrounded by a growing number of monkeys.
“Are you surprised?” The way she put it made him choose his
words with care.
“It’s not the type of thing one assumes,” Mr. Kapasi replied
slowly. He put the tin of lotus-oil balm back in his pocket.
“No, of course not. And no one knows, of course. No one at
all. I’ve kept it a secret for eight whole years.” She looked at Mr. Kapasi,
tilting her chin as if to gain a fresh perspective. “But now I’ve told you.”
Mr. Kapasi nodded. He felt suddenly parched3, and his forehead was warm and slightly numb from the balm. He considered
asking Mrs. Das for a sip of water, then decided against it.
“We met when we were very young,” she said. She reached
into her straw bag in search of something, then pulled out a packet of
puffed rice. “Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
She put a fistful in her mouth, sank into the seat a little, and
looked away from Mr. Kapasi, out the window on her side of the car.
“We married when we were still in college. We were in high school
when he proposed. We went to the same college, of course. Back then
1
snatch to take sth quickly and often rudely or roughly
prickle a slight stinging feeling on the skin
3 parched very dry, esp because the weather is hot
2
we couldn’t stand the thought of being separated, not for a day, not
for a minute. Our parents were best friends who lived in the same
town. My entire life I saw him every weekend, either at our house or
theirs. We were sent upstairs to play together while our parents joked
about our marriage. Imagine! They never caught us at anything,
though in a way I think it was all more or less a setup. The things we
did those Friday and Saturday nights, while our parents sat downstairs
drinking tea ... I could tell you stories, Mr. Kapasi.”
As a result of spending all her time in college with Raj, she
continued, she did not make many close friends. There was no one to
confide in about him at the end of a difficult day, or to share a passing
thought or a worry. Her parents now lived on the other side of the
world, but she had never been very close to them, anyway. After
marrying so young she was overwhelmed by it all, having a child so
quickly, and nursing, and warming up bottles of milk and testing their
temperature against her wrist while Raj was at work, dressed in
sweaters and corduroy1 pants, teaching his students about rocks and
dinosaurs. Raj never looked cross2 or harried3, or plump4 as she had
become after the first baby.
Always tired, she declined invitations from her one or two
college girlfriends, to have lunch or shop in Manhattan. Eventually the
friends stopped calling her, so that she was left at home all day with
the baby, surrounded by toys that made her trip5 when she walked or
wince6 when she sat, always cross and tired. Only occasionally did they
go out after Ronny was born, and even more rarely did they entertain7.
Raj didn’t mind; he looked forward to coming home from teaching and
watching television and bouncing Ronny on his knee. She had been
outraged when Raj told her that a Punjabi friend, someone whom she
had once met but did not remember, would be staying with them for
a week for some job interviews in the New Brunswick area.
Bobby was conceived in the afternoon, on a sofa littered with8
rubber teething toys, after the friend learned that a London
pharmaceutical company had hired him, while Ronny cried to be freed
from his playpen. She made no protest when the friend touched the
small9 of her back as she was about to make a pot of coffee, then
pulled her against his crisp navy suit. He made love to her swiftly10, in
1
corduroy a type of strong soft cotton cloth with a pattern of raised parallel lines on
it, used for making clothes
2 cross annoyed or quite angry
3 harry to annoy or upset sby by continuously asking them questions or for sth
4 plump having a soft, round body; slightly fat
5 trip to catch your foot on sth and fall or almost fall
6 wince to suddenly make an expression with your face that shows that you are
feeling pain or embarrassment
7 entertain to invite people to eat or to drink with you as your guests, esp in your
home
8 be littered with to contain or involve a lot of a particular type of thing, usually sth
bad
9 small the lower part of the back where it curves
10 swiftly happening or done quickly and immediately ; doing sth quickly
silence, with an expertise she had never known, without the
meaningful expressions and smiles Raj always insisted on afterward.
The next day Raj drove the friend to JFK1. He was married now, to a
Punjabi girl, and they lived in London still, and every year they
exchanged Christmas cards with Raj and Mina, each couple tucking
photos of their families into the envelopes. He did not know that he
was Bobby’s father. He never would.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Das, but why have you told me this
information?” Mr. Kapasi asked when she had finally finished
speaking, and had turned to face him once again.
“For God’s sake, stop calling me Mrs. Das. I’m twenty-eight.
You probably have children my age.”
“Not quite.” It disturbed Mr. Kapasi to learn that she thought
of him as a parent. The feeling he had had toward her, that had made
him check his reflection in the rearview mirror as they drove, evaporated a little.
“I told you because of your talents.” She put the packet of
puffed rice back into her bag without folding over the top.
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Kapasi said.
“Don’t you see? For eight years I haven’t been able to express
this to anybody, not to friends, certainly not to Raj. He doesn’t even
suspect it. He thinks I’m still in love with him. Well, don’t you have
anything to say?”
“About what?”
“About what I’ve just told you. About my secret, and about
how terrible it makes me feel. I feel terrible looking at my children, and
at Raj, always terrible. I have terrible urges2, Mr. Kapasi, to throw
things away. One day I had the urge to throw everything I own out the
window, the television, the children, everything. Don’t you think it’s
unhealthy?”
He was silent.
“Mr. Kapasi, don’t you have anything to say? I thought that
was your job.”
“My job is to give tours, Mrs. Das.”
“Not that. Your other job. As an interpreter.”
“But we do not face a language barrier. What need is there for
an interpreter?”
“That’s not what I mean. I would never have told you otherwise. Don’t you realize what it means for me to tell you?”
“What does it mean?”
“It means that I’m tired of feeling so terrible all the time. Eight
years, Mr. Kapasi, I’ve been in pain eight years. I was hoping you could
help me feel better, say the right thing. Suggest some kind of remedy.”
He looked at her, in her red plaid skirt and strawberry T-shirt,
a woman not yet thirty, who loved neither her husband nor her
1
2
JFK John F. Kennedy airport in New York
urge a strong desire to do sth
children, who had already fallen out of love with life. Her confession
depressed him, depressed him all the more when he thought of Mr.
Das at the top of the path, Tina clinging to his shoulders, taking
pictures of ancient monastic cells cut into the hills to show his students
in America, unsuspecting and unaware that one of his sons was not his
own. Mr. Kapasi felt insulted that Mrs. Das should ask him to interpret
her common, trivial little secret. She did not resemble the patients in
the doctor’s office, those who came glassy-eyed1 and desperate,
unable to sleep or breathe or urinate with ease, unable, above all, to
give words to their pains. Still, Mr. Kapasi believed it was his duty to
assist Mrs. Das. Perhaps he ought to tell her to confess the truth to Mr.
Das. He would explain that honesty was the best policy. Honesty,
surely, would help her feel better, as she’d put it. Perhaps he would
offer to preside over the discussion, as a mediator. He decided to begin
with the most obvious question, to get to the heart of the matter, and
so he asked, “Is it really pain you feel, Mrs. Das, or is it guilt?”
She turned to him and glared, mustard oil thick on her frosty
pink lips. She opened her mouth to say something, but as she glared
at Mr. Kapasi some certain knowledge seemed to pass before her eyes,
and she stopped. It crushed2 him; he knew at that moment that he was
not even important enough to be properly insulted. She opened the
car door and began walking up the path, wobbling3 a little on her
square wooden heels, reaching into her straw bag to eat handfuls of
puffed rice. It fell through her fingers, leaving a zigzagging trail, causing
a monkey to leap down from a tree and devour the little white grains.
In search of more, the monkey began to follow Mrs. Das. Others joined
him, so that she was soon being followed by about half a dozen of
them, their velvety tails dragging behind.
Mr. Kapasi stepped out of the car. He wanted to holler4, to
alert her in some way, but he worried that if she knew they were
behind her, she would grow nervous. Perhaps she would lose her
balance. Perhaps they would pull at her bag or her hair. He began to
jog up the path, taking a fallen branch in his hand to scare away the
monkeys. Mrs. Das continued walking, oblivious5, trailing grains of
puffed rice. Near the top of the incline, before a group of cells fronted
by a row of squat stone pillars, Mr. Das was kneeling on the ground,
focusing the lens of his camera. The children stood under the arcade,
now hiding, now emerging from view.
“Wait for me,” Mrs. Das called out. “I’m coming.”
Tina jumped up and down. “Here comes Mommy!”
“Great,” Mr. Das said without looking up. “Just in time. We’ll
get Mr. Kapasi to take a picture of the five of us.”
1
glassy showing no feeling or emotion
crush to destroy sby’s confidence or happiness
3 wobble to move from side to side in an unsteady way
4 holler to shout loudly
5 oblivious not aware of sth
2
Mr. Kapasi quickened his pace1, waving his branch so that the
monkeys scampered away, distracted, in another direction.
“Where’s Bobby?” Mrs. Das asked when she stopped.
Mr. Das looked up from the camera. “I don’t know. Ronny,
where’s Bobby?”
Ronny shrugged. “I thought he was right here.”
“Where is he?” Mrs. Das repeated sharply. “What’s wrong
with all of you?”
They began calling his name, wandering up and down the path
a bit. Because they were calling, they did not initially hear the boy’s
screams. When they found him, a little farther down the path under a
tree, he was surrounded by a group of monkeys, over a dozen of them,
pulling at his T-shirt with their long black fingers. The puffed rice Mrs.
Das had spilled was scattered at his feet, raked over by the monkeys’
hands. The boy was silent, his body frozen, swift tears running down
his startled face. His bare legs were dusty and red with welts2 from
where one of the monkeys struck him repeatedly with the stick he had
given to it earlier.
“Daddy, the monkey’s hurting Bobby,” Tina said.
Mr. Das wiped3 his palms on the front of his shorts. In his
nervousness he accidentally pressed the shutter on his camera; the
whirring noise of the advancing film excited the monkeys, and the one
with the stick began to beat Bobby more intently. “What are we
supposed to do? What if they start attacking?”
“Mr. Kapasi,” Mrs. Das shrieked, noticing him standing to one
side. “Do something, for God’s sake, do something!”
Mr. Kapasi took his branch and shooed4 them away, hissing5 at
the ones that remained, stomping his feet to scare them. The animals
retreated slowly, with a measured gait6, obedient but unintimidated.
Mr. Kapasi gathered Bobby in his arms and brought him back to where
his parents and siblings were standing. As he carried him he was
tempted to whisper a secret into the boy’s ear. But Bobby was
stunned7, and shivering with fright, his legs bleeding slightly where the
stick had broken the skin. When Mr. Kapasi delivered him to his
parents, Mr. Das brushed some dirt off the boy’s T-shirt and put the
visor on him the right way. Mrs. Das reached into her straw bag to find
a bandage which she taped over the cut on his knee. Ronny offered his
brother a fresh piece of gum. “He’s fine. Just a little scared, right,
Bobby?” Mr. Das said, patting the top of his head.
“God, let’s get out of here,” Mrs. Das said. She folded her arms
across the strawberry on her chest. “This place gives me the creeps.”
1
pace the speed at which sby or sth walks, runs or moves
welt a raised mark on the skin where sth has hit or rubbed you
3 wipe to rub sth against a surface, in order to remove dirt or liquid from it
4 shoo to make sby or sth go away or to another place, esp by saying ‘shoo’ and
waving your arms and hands
5 hiss to make a sound like a long ‘s’
6 gait a way of walking
7 stunned shocked, stupefied
2
“Yeah. Back to the hotel, definitely,” Mr. Das agreed.
“Poor Bobby,” Mrs. Das said. “Come here a second. Let
Mommy fix your hair.” Again she reached into her straw bag, this time
for her hairbrush, and began to run it around the edges of the
translucent visor. When she whipped out the hairbrush, the slip of
paper with Mr. Kapasi’s address on it fluttered away in the wind. No
one but Mr. Kapasi noticed. He watched as it rose, carried higher and
higher by the breeze, into the trees where the monkeys now sat,
solemnly observing the scene below. Mr. Kapasi observed it too,
knowing that this was the picture of the Das family he would preserve
forever in his mind.
Malamud, Bernard “The Jewbird” (1963)
The window was open so the skinny bird flew in. Flappity-flap1 with its
frazzled2 black wings. That’s how it goes. It’s open, you’re in. Closed,
you’re out and that’s your fate. The bird wearily flapped through the
open kitchen window of Harry Cohen’s top-floor apartment on First
Avenue near the lower East River. On a rod3 on the wall hung an
escaped canary cage, its door wide open, but this black-type longbeaked bird – its ruffled4 head and small dull eyes, crossed a little,
making it look like a dissipated crow5 – landed if not smack6 on Cohen’s
thick lamb chop7, at least on the table, close by. The frozen-foods
salesman was sitting at supper with his wife and young son on a hot
August evening a year ago. Cohen, a heavy man with hairy chest and
beefy8 shorts; Edie, in skinny yellow shorts and red halter9; and their
ten-year-old Morris (after his father) – Maurie, they called him, a nice
kid though not overly bright – were all in the city after two weeks out,
because Cohen’s mother was dying. They had been enjoying Kingston,
New York, but drove back when Mama got sick in her flat in the Bronx.
“Right on the table,” said Cohen, putting down his beer glass
and swatting10 at the bird. “Son of a bitch.”
“Harry, take care with your language,” Edie said, looking at
Maurie, who watched every move.
The bird cawed11 hoarsely12 and with a flap of its bedraggled13
wings – feathers tufted14 this way and that – rose heavily to the top of
the open kitchen door, where it perched15 staring down.
“Gevalt16, a pogrom17!”
“It’s a talking bird,” said Edie in astonishment.
“In Jewish,” said Maurie.
Text based on: Malamud, Bernard. 1984. The Stories of Bernard Malamud. New York:
Plume Books.
1
flappity-flap onomatopoeia representing the bird flying
frazzled extremely tired, exhausted
3 rod a long straight piece of wood, metal…
4 ruffled not smooth
5 crow a black bird (Fr. corbeau)
6 smack directly, right
7 lamb chop a thick slice of lamb meat with a bone attached to it
8 beefy large-size, big
9 halter a woman’s garment held in place by straps around the neck and leaving the
arms and back bare
10 swat to hit sth with a quick sharp blow
11 caw the unpleasant sound that is made by birds such as crows
12 hoarsely with a rough and unpleasant sound
13 bedraggled made wet, dirty or untidy by rain or mud
14 tufted having a number of pieces of hair growing or held closely together at the
base
15 perch to sit, as on a branch
16 gevalt an exclamation of woe, distress, shock, etc
17 pogrom the organized killing of large numbers of people, because of their race or
religion (originally the killing of Jews in Russia)
2
Malamud “The Jewbird” (2)
“Wise guy,” muttered Cohen. He gnawed1 on his chop, then
put down the bone. “So if you can talk, say what’s your business. What
do you want here?”
“If you can’t spare a lamb chop,” said the bird, “I’ll settle for a
piece of herring2 with a crust3 of bread. You can’t live on your nerve
forever.”
“This ain’t a restaurant,” Cohen replied. “All I’m asking is what
brings you to this address?”
“The window was open,” the bird sighed4; adding after a
moment, “I’m running. I’m flying but I’m also running.”
“From whom?” asked Edie with interest.
“Anti-Semeets5.”
“Anti-Semites?” they all said.
“That’s from whom.
“What kind of anti-Semites bother a bird?” Edie asked.
“Any kind,” said the bird, “also including eagles, vultures, and
6
hawks . And once in a while some crows will take your eyes out.”
“But aren’t you a crow?”
“Me? I’m a Jewbird.”
Cohen laughed heartily. “What do you mean by that?”
The bird began dovening7. He prayed without Book8 or tallith9,
but with passion. Edie bowed10 her head though not Cohen. And
Maurie rocked back and forth with the prayers, looking up with one
wide-open eye.
When the prayer was done Cohen remarked, “No hat, no
phylacteries11?”
“I’m an old radical.”
“You’re sure you’re not some kind of a ghost or dybbuk12?”
“Not a dybbuk,” answered the bird, “though one of my
relatives had such an experience once. It’s all over now, thanks God.
They freed her from her former lover, a crazy jealous man. She’s now
the mother of two wonderful children.”
“Birds?” Cohen asked slyly13.
“Why not?”
1
gnaw to keep biting sth hard, so that it gradually disappears
herring a fish that used to be cheap (Fr. hareng); it was an important part of the
diet of the Jews
3 crust the hard outer surface of bread
4 sigh to let out a long deep breath that can be heard, to show that you are
disappointed, sad or tired
5 anti-Semeets anti-Semites (pronounced with Yiddish accent)
6 hawk a bird of prey (Fr. faucon)
7 doven to pray intensely (in the Jewish tradition)
8 Book holy book
9 Tallith a shawl traditionally worn by Jews at prayer
10 bow to bend
11 phylactery a small leather box containing four texts of Scripture and worn by Jews
during prayer as a reminder of the obligation to keep the Law
12 dybbuk a demon or the malevolent soul of a dead person that enters the body of a
living person and directs his conduct
13 slyly cleverly, cunningly, craftily
2
“What kind of birds?”
“Like me. Jewbirds.”
Cohen tipped1 back in his chair and guffawed2. “That’s a big
laugh. I heard of a Jewfish3 but not a Jewbird.”
“We’re once removed4.” The bird rested on one skinny leg,
then on the other. “Please, could you spare maybe a piece of herring
with a small crust of bread?”
Edie got up from the table.
“What are you doing?” Cohen asked her.
“I’ll clear the dishes.”
Cohen turned to the bird. “So what’s your name, if you don’t
mind saying?”
“Call me Schwartz.”
“He might be an old Jew changed into a bird by somebody,”
said Edie, removing a plate.
“Are you?” asked Harry, lighting a cigar.
“Who knows?” answered Schwartz. “Does God tell us everything?”
Maurie got up on his chair. “What kind of herring?” he asked
the bird in excitement.
“Get down, Maurie, or you’ll fall,” ordered Cohen.
“If you haven’t got matjes5, I’ll take schmaltz6,” said Schwartz.
“All we have is marinated, with slices of onion – in a jar7,” said
Edie.
“If you’ll open for me the jar I’ll eat marinated. Do you have
also, if you don’t mind, a piece of rye8 bread – the spitz9?”
Edie thought she had.
“Feed him out on the balcony,” Cohen said. He spoke to the
bird. “After that take off.”
Schwartz closed both bird eyes. “I’m tired and it’s a long way.”
“Which direction are you headed, north or south?”
Schwartz, barely lifting his wings, shrugged10.
“You don’t know where you’re going?”
“Where there’s charity I’ll go.”
“Let him stay, papa,” said Maurie. “He’s only a bird.”
“So stay the night,” Cohen said, “but not longer.”
1
tip to lean
guffaw to laugh noisily and coarsely
3 Jewfish a sort of fish
4 once removed (of cousins) belonging to a different generation
5 matje a young herring salted or pickled
6 schmaltz filleted mature herring, salted and preserved in brine
7 jar a round glass container, used for storing food
8 rye Fr. seigle
9 spitz the tip or end of a long loaf of bread, likely to be dry or crusty
10 shrug to raise your shoulders and then drop them to show that you do not know
or care about sth
2
In the morning Cohen ordered the bird out of the house but
Maurie cried, so Schwartz stayed for a while. Maurie was still on vacation from school and his friends were away. He was lonely and Edie
enjoyed the fun he had, playing with the bird.
“He’s no trouble at all,” she told Cohen, “and besides his
appetite is very small.”
“What’ll you do when he makes dirty?”
“He flies across the street in a tree when he makes dirty, and
if nobody passes below, who notices?”
“So all right,” said Cohen, “but I’m dead set against it1. I warn
you he ain’t gonna stay here long.”
“What have you got against the poor bird?”
“Poor bird, my ass. He’s a foxy2 bastard. He thinks he’s a Jew.”
“What difference does it make what he thinks?”
“A Jewbird, what a chuzpah3. One false move and he’s out on
his drumsticks4.”
At Cohen’s insistence Schwartz lived out on the balcony in a
new wooden birdhouse Edie had bought him.
“With many thanks,” said Schwartz, “though I would rather
have a human roof over my head. You know how it is at my age. I like
the warm, the windows, the smell of cooking. I would also be glad to
see once in a while the Jewish Morning Journal5 and have now and
then a schnapps6 because it helps my breathing, thanks God. But whatever you give me, you won’t hear complaints.”
However, when Cohen brought home a bird feeder full of
dried corn, Schwartz said, “Impossible.”
Cohen was annoyed. “What’s the matter, crosseyes7, is your
life getting too good for you? Are you forgetting what it means to be
migratory? I’ll bet a helluva8 lot of crows you happen to be acquainted9
with, Jews or otherwise, would give their eyeteeth10 to eat this corn.”
Schwartz did not answer. What can you say to a grubber
11
yung ?
“Not for my digestion,” he later explained to Edie. “Cramps.
Herring is better even if it makes you thirsty. At least rainwater don’t
cost anything.” He laughed sadly in breathy caws.
1
be dead set against sth to be strongly against sth
foxy clever at tricking others
3 chuzpah guts, daring, audacity
4 drumsticks the lower part of the leg of a chicken or other bird (they are so thin they
look like drum sticks)
5 Jewish Morning Journal (Yiddish Der Morgen Zhornal) ultra-orthodox Yiddish
newspaper, founded in New York in 1901
6 schnapps a strong alcoholic drink
7 crosseyes used as an insult to refer to sby who has strabismus (i.e. the eyes turning
towards each other)
8 helluva hell of a
9 acquainted not close friends with sby, but having met a few times before
10 give one’s eyeteeth for to give up all one has in order to get sth
11 grubber yung a coarse, gross, profane young man
2
And herring, thanks to Edie, who knew where to shop, was
what Schwartz got, with an occasional piece of potato pancake, and
even a bit of soupmeat when Cohen wasn’t looking.
When school began in September, before Cohen would once
again suggest giving the bird the boot1, Edie prevailed on him to wait
a little while Maurie adjusted.
“To deprive2 him right now might hurt his school work, and
you know what trouble we had last year.”
“So okay, but sooner or later the bird goes. That I promise
you.”
Schwartz, though nobody had asked him, took on full
responsibility for Maurie’s performance in school. In return for favors
granted, when he was let in for an hour or two at night, he spent most
of his time overseeing the boy’s lessons. He sat on top of the dresser
near Maurie’s desk as he laboriously wrote out his homework. Maurie
was a restless type and Schwartz gently kept him to his studies. He also
listened to him practice his screechy violin, taking a few minutes off
now and then to rest his ears in the bathroom. And they afterwards
played dominoes. The boy was an indifferent checkers3 player and it
was impossible to teach him chess. When he was sick, Schwartz read
him comic books though he personally disliked them. But Maurie’s
work improved in school and even his violin teacher admitted his
playing was better. Edie gave Schwartz credit for these improvements
though the bird pooh-poohed4 them.
Yet he was proud there was nothing lower than C minuses on
Maurie’s report card, and on Edie’s insistence celebrated with a little
schnapps.
“If he keeps up like this,” Cohen said, “I’ll get him in an Ivy
League college5 for sure.”
“Oh I hope so,” sighed Edie.
But Schwartz shook his head. “He’s a good boy – you don’t
have to worry. He won’t be a shicker6 or a wifebeater, God forbid, but
a scholar he’ll never be, if you know what I mean, although maybe a
good mechanic. It’s no disgrace in these times.”
“If I were you,” Cohen said, angered, “I’d keep my big snoot7
out of other people’s private business.”
“Harry, please,” said Edie.
“My goddamn patience is wearing out. That crosseyes butts
8
into everything.”
1
give the boot to send away rudely, to kick out
deprive to prevent sby from having or doing sth
3 checkers a game played on a checkerboard by two players, each using twelve flat,
round pieces
4 pooh-pooh to dismiss, to reject
5 Ivy League college one of the top-class American universities; the term implies
academic excellence, selectivity in admissions and a reputation for social elitism
6 shicker a drunkard
7 snoot a person’s nose
8 butt into to run into, to interfere with
2
Though he wasn’t exactly a welcome guest in the house,
Schwartz gained a few ounces1 although he did not improve in appearance. He looked bedraggled as ever, his feathers unkempt2, as though
he had just flown out of a snowstorm. He spent, he admitted, little
time taking care of himself. Too much to think about. “Also outside
plumbing3,” he told Edie. Still there was more glow to his eyes so that
though Cohen went on calling him crosseyes he said it less
emphatically.
Liking his situation, Schwartz tried tactfully to stay out of
Cohen’s way, but one night when Edie was at the movies and Maurie
was taking a hot shower, the frozen foods salesman began a quarrel
with the bird.
“For Christ sake, why don’t you wash yourself sometimes?
Why must you always stink like a dead fish?”
“Mr. Cohen, if you’ll pardon me, if somebody eats garlic4 he
will smell from garlic. I eat herring three times a day. Feed me flowers
and I will smell like flowers.”
“Who’s obligated to feed you anything at all? You’re lucky to
get herring.”
“Excuse me, I’m not complaining,” said the bird. “You’re complaining.”
“What’s more,” said Cohen, “even from out on the balcony I
can hear you snoring5 away like a pig. It keeps me awake at night.”
“Snoring,” said Schwartz, “isn’t a crime, thanks God.”
“All in all you are a goddamn pest and freeloader6. Next thing
you’ll want to sleep in bed next to my wife.”
“Mr. Cohen,” said Schwartz, “on this rest assured. A bird is a
bird.”
“So you say, but how do I know you’re a bird and not some
kind of a goddamn devil?”
“If I was a devil you would know already. And I don’t mean
because your son’s good marks.”
“Shut up, you bastard bird,” shouted Cohen.
“Grubber yung,” cawed Schwartz, rising to the tips of his
talons, his long wings outstretched7.
Cohen was about to lunge8 for the bird’s scrawny9 neck but
Maurie came out of the bathroom, and for the rest of the evening until
Schwartz’s bedtime on the balcony, there was pretended peace.
1
ounces a unit of measuring weight
unkempt not well cared for, not neat or tidy
3 outside plumbing washing and toilet facilities outside
4 garlic Fr. ail
5 snore to breathe noisily through your nose and mouth while you are asleep
6 freeloader a person who is always accepting free food and accommodation from
other people without giving them anything in exchange
7 outstretched spread out as far as possible
8 lunge to make a sudden powerful forward movement, esp. in order to attack sby
9 scrawny very thin in a way that is not attractive
2
But the quarrel had deeply disturbed Schwartz and he slept
badly. His snoring woke him, and awake, he was fearful of what would
become of him. Wanting to stay out of Cohen’s way, he kept to the
birdhouse as much as possible. Cramped by it, he paced1 back and
forth on the balcony ledge2, or sat on the birdhouse roof, staring into
space. In the evenings, while overseeing Maurie’s lessons, he often fell
asleep. Awakening, he nervously hopped3 around exploring the four
corners of the room. He spent much time in Maurie’s closet4, and
carefully examined his bureau drawers when they were left open. And
once when he found a large paper bag on the floor, Schwartz poked5
his way into it to investigate what possibilities were. The boy was
amused to see the bird in the paper bag.
“He wants to build a nest,” he said to his mother.
Edie, sensing Schwartz’s unhappiness, spoke to him quietly.
“Maybe if you did some of the things my husband wants you,
you would get along better with him.”
“Give me a for instance,” Schwartz said.
“Like take a bath, for instance.”
“I’m too old for baths,” said the bird. “My feathers fall out
without baths.”
“He says you have a bad smell.”
“Everybody smells. Some people because of their thoughts or
because who they are. My bad smell comes from the food I eat. What
does his come from?”
“I better not ask him or it might make him mad,” said Edie.
In late November Schwartz froze on the balcony in the fog and
cold, and especially on rainy days he woke with stiff6 joints7 and could
barely move his wings. Already he felt twinges8 of rheumatism. He would
have liked to spend more time in the warm house, particularly when
Maurie was in school and Cohen at work. But though Edie was
goodhearted and might have sneaked9 him in in the morning, just to thaw
out10, he was afraid to ask her. In the meantime Cohen, who had been
reading articles about the migration of birds, came out on the balcony one
night after work when Edie was in the kitchen preparing pot roast11, and
peeking12 into the birdhouse, warned Schwartz to be on his way soon if
he knew what was good for him. “Time to hit the flyways.”
1
pace to walk up and down in a small area many times, esp. because you are feeling
nervous
2 ledge a narrow shelf below a window
3 hop to move by jumping with both feet together
4 closet a wardrobe
5 poke to push or thrust
6 stiff hurting, difficult to bend or move
7 joints a place where two bones are joined together in the body in a way that
enables them to bend or move
8 twinge a sudden sharp attack
9 sneak to go somewhere secretly
10 thaw out to return to a normal temperature after being very cold
11 pot roast meat (often beef) slowly cooked in a covered pot
12 peek to look at sth quickly and secretly because you should not be looking at it
“Mr. Cohen, why do you hate me so much?” asked the bird.
“What did I do to you?”
“Because you’re an A-number-one1 trouble maker, that’s why.
What’s more, whoever heard of a Jewbird? Now scat2 or it’s open
war.”
But Schwartz stubbornly3 refused to depart so Cohen embarked on a campaign of harassing him, meanwhile hiding it from Edie
and Maurie. Maurie hated violence and Cohen didn’t want to leave a
bad impression. He thought maybe if he played dirty tricks on the bird
he would fly off without being physically kicked out. The vacation was
over, let him make his easy living off the fat of somebody else’s land4.
Cohen worried about the effect of the bird’s departure on Maurie’s
schooling but decided to take the chance, first, because the boy now
seemed to have the knack5 of studying – give the black bird-bastard
credit – and second, because Schwartz was driving him bats6 by being
there always, even in his dreams.
The frozen foods salesman began his campaign against the bird
by mixing watery cat food with the herring slices in Schwartz’s dish. He
also blew up and popped7 numerous paper bags outside the birdhouse
as the bird slept, and when he had got Schwartz good and nervous,
though not enough to leave, he brought a full-grown cat into the house,
supposedly a gift for little Maurie, who had always wanted a pussy. The
cat never stopped springing up at Schwartz whenever he saw him, one
day managing to claw out8 several of his tail feathers. And even at lesson
time, when the cat was usually excluded from Maurie’s room, though
somehow or other he quickly found his way in at the end of the lesson,
Schwartz was desperately fearful of his life and flew from pinnacle9 to
pinnacle – light fixture10 to clothes tree11 to door top – in order to elude
the beast’s wet jaws12.
Once when the bird complained to Edie how hazardous his
existence was, she said, “Be patient, Mr. Schwartz. When the cat gets
to know you better he won’t try to catch you any more.”
“When he stops trying we will both be in Paradise,” Schwartz
answered. “Do me a favor and get rid of him. He makes my whole life
worry. I’m losing feathers like a tree loses leaves.”
“I’m awfully sorry but Maurie likes the pussy and sleeps with
it.”
1
A-number-one of the first category
scat to go away fast
3 stubborn determined not to change your opinion or attitude
4 live off the fat of sby else’s land to have a good life at the expense of sby else
5 knack a special skill or ability
6 drive sby bats to drive sby crazy
7 pop to burst
8 claw out to pull out with its claw
9 pinnacle the highest point
10 fixture a thing that is fixed
11 clothes tree an upright pole with pegs or hooks on which to hang clothing
12 jaws the mouth and teeth of an animal
2
What could Schwartz do? He worried but came to no decision,
being afraid to leave. So he ate the herring garnished with cat food,
tried hard not to hear the paper bags bursting like fire crackers outside
the birdhouse at night, and lived terror-stricken, closer to the ceiling
than the floor, as the cat, his tail flicking, endlessly watched him.
Weeks went by. Then on the day after Cohen’s mother had
died in her flat in the Bronx, when Maurie came home with a zero on
an arithmetic test, Cohen, enraged, waited until Edie had taken the
boy to his violin lesson, then openly attacked the bird. He chased1 him
with a broom2 on the balcony and Schwartz frantically3 flew back and
forth, finally escaping into his birdhouse. Cohen triumphantly reached
in, and grabbing4 both skinny legs, dragged5 the bird out, cawing6
loudly, his wings wildly beating. He whirled the bird around and around
his head.7 But Schwartz, as he moved in circles, managed to swoop8
down and catch Cohen’s nose in his beak, and hung on for dear life.
Cohen cried out in great pain, punched at the bird with his fist9, and
tugging10 at his legs with all his might, pulled his nose free. Again he
swung the yawking11 Schwartz around until the bird grew dizzy12, then
with a furious heave13, flung him into the night. Schwartz sank like a
stone into the street. Cohen then tossed14 the birdhouse and feeder
after him, listening at the ledge until they crashed on the sidewalk
below. For a full hour, broom in hand, his heart palpitating and nose
throbbing15 with pain, Cohen waited for Schwartz to return, but the
broken-hearted bird didn’t.
That’s the end of that dirty bastard, the salesman thought and
went in. Edie and Maurie had come home.
“Look,” said Cohen, pointing to his bloody nose swollen three
times its normal size, “what that sonofabitchy16 bird did. It’s a permanent scar17.”
1
chase to force sby to run away
broom a brush on the end of a long handle, used for sweeping floors
3 frantically unable to control your emotions because you are extremely frightened
or worried about sth
4 grab to take or hold sby/sth with your hand suddenly, firmly or roughly
5 drag to pull sb/sth along with effort and difficulty
6 caw to make the unpleasant sound that is made by birds like crows
7 Cohen is here performing a kind of parody of a Jewish ritual called shlogen kapores, during which
a chicken is whirled through the air before being slaughtered as a sacrifice on the day
before Yom Kippur
8 swoop to fly quickly and suddenly downwards, esp. in order to attack
9 fist a hand when it is tightly closed with the fingers bent into the palm
10 tug to pull sth hard, often several times
11 yawk onomatopoeic word
12 dizzy feeling as if everything is spinning around you and that you are not able to
balance
13 heave an act of lifting, pulling or throwing
14 toss to throw
15 throb to feel a series of regular painful movements
16 sonofabitchy son of a bitch (used as adjective)
17 scar a mark that is left on the skin after a wound has healed
2
“Where is he now?” Edie asked, frightened.
“I threw him out and he flew away. Good riddance1.”
Nobody said no, though Edie touched a handkerchief to her
eyes and Maurie rapidly tried the nine-times table and found he knew
approximately half.
In the spring when the winter’s snow had melted, the boy,
moved by a memory, wandered in the neighborhood, looking for
Schwartz. He found a dead black bird in a small lot2 near the river, his
two wings broken, neck twisted, and both bird-eyes plucked3 clean.
“Who did it to you, Mr. Schwartz?” Maurie wept4.
“Anti-Semeets,” Edie said later.
1
good riddance an unkind way of saying that you are pleased that sby/sth has gone
lot an area of land
3 pluck to take hold of sth and remove it by pulling it
4 weep to cry
2
Malouf, David “The Only Speaker of his Tongue”
(1985)
He has already been pointed out to me: a flabby1, thickset man of fiftyfive or sixty, very black, working alongside the others and in no way
different from them — or so it seems. When they work he swings his pick
with the same rhythm. When they pause he squats and rolls a cigarette,
running his tongue along the edge of the paper while his eyes, under the
stained hat, observe the straight line of the horizon; then he sets it
between his lips, cups flame2, draws in, and blows out smoke like all the
rest.
Wears moleskins3 looped low under his belly and a flannel vest.
Sits at smoko4 on one heel and sips tea from an enamel mug. Spits, and
his spit hisses on stone. Then rises, spits in his palm and takes up the pick.
They are digging holes for fencing-posts at the edge of the plain. When
called he answers immediately, ‘Here, boss,’ and then, when he has
approached, ‘Yes boss, you wanna see me?’ I am presented and he seems
amused, as if I were some queer northern bird he had heard about but
never till now believed in, a sort of crane5 perhaps, with my grey frockcoat6 and legs too spindly7 in their yellow trousers; an odd, angular fellow
with yellow-grey side-whiskers8, half spectacles9 and a cold-sore10 on his
lip. So we stand face to face.
He is, they tell me, the one surviving speaker of his tongue. Half a
century back, when he was a boy, the last of his people were massacred.
The language, one of hundreds (why make a fuss?) died with them. Only
not quite. For all his lifetime this man has spoken it, if only to himself. The
words, the great system of sound and silence (for all languages, even the
simplest, are a great and complex system) are locked up now in his heavy
skull, behind the folds of the black brow (hence my scholarly interest), in
the mouth with its stained teeth and fat, rather pink tongue. It is alive still
in the man’s silence, a whole alternative universe, since the world as we
know it is in the last resort11 the words through which we imagine and
Text based on: Wilding, Michael (ed.). 1994. The Oxford Book of Australian Short
Stories. Oxford: Oxford University Press. See pp. 207-210. The story was originally
published in Malouf’s story collection Antipodes (1985).
1
flabby having soft, loose flesh; being somewhat overweight
cups flame (he) cups (the) flame (with his hands), to keep it from being blown out
3 moleskins trousers made of moleskin (type of strong cotton with soft surface; lit.
Fr. ‘peau de taupe’)
4 smoko (Austr. Engl., informal) a break, a rest from work (e.g., to have a smoke)
5 crane a large bird with a long neck, long legs and a long bill (Fr. grue)
6 frock-coat a long coat worn by men, esp. in the past or on formal occasions
7 spindly long, thin and usu. frail
8 side-whiskers facial hair growing down the side of a man’s face in front of the ears
but not on his chin
9 half spectacles half-glass spectacles, spectacles for reading only
10 cold-sore a small blister or sore on or around the mouth
11 in the last resort in the end
2
Malouf “The Only Speaker of his Tongue” (2)
name it; and when he narrows his eyes, and grins and says ‘Yes, boss, you
wanna see me?’, it is not breathed out.
I am (you may know my name) a lexicographer. I come to these
shores from far off, out of curiosity, a mere tourist, but in my own land I
too am the keeper of something: of the great book of words of my tongue.
No, not mine, my people’s, which they have made over centuries, up
there in our part of the world, and in which, if you have an ear for these
things and a nose for the particular fragrance of a landscape, you may
glimpse forests, lakes, great snow-peaks that hang over our land like the
wings of birds. It is all there in our mouths. In the odd names of our
villages, in the pet-names we give to pigs or cows, and to our children too
when they are young, Little Bean, Pretty Cowslip1; in the nonsense rhymes
in which so much simple wisdom is contained (not by accident, the
language itself discovers these truths), or in the way, when two
consonants catch up a repeated sound, a new thought goes flashing from
one side to another of your head.
All this is mystery. It is a mystery of the deep past, but also of now.
We recapture on our tongue, when we first grasp the sound and make it,
the same word in the mouths of our long dead fathers, whose blood we
move in and whose blood still moves in us. Language is that blood. It is
the sun taken up where it shares out heat and light to the surface of each
thing and made whole, hot, round again. Solen2, we say, and the sun
stamps once on the plain and pushes up in its great hot body, trailing
streams of breath.
O holiest of all holy things! — it is a stooped blond crane that tells
you this, with yellow side-whiskers and the grey frockcoat and trousers of
his century — since we touch here on beginnings, go deep down under
Now to the remotest dark, far back in each ordinary moment of our
speaking, even in gossip and the rigmarole3 of love words and children’s
games, into the lives of our fathers, to share with them the single instant
of all our seeing and making, all our long history of doing and being. When
I think of my tongue4 being no longer alive in the mouths of men a chill5
goes over me that is deeper than my own death, since it is the gathered6
death of all my kind. It is black night descending once and forever on all
that world of forests, lakes, snow peaks, great birds’ wings; on little fishing
sloops7, on foxes nosing their way into a coop8, on the piles of logs that
make bonfires, and the heels of the young girls leaping over them, on
sewing-needles, milk pails9, axes, on gingerbread10 moulds11 made out of
1
cowslip primula veris, i.e., a small wild plant with yellow flowers (Fr. coucou)
solen (Norwegian) the sun
3 rigmarole confused or meaningless talk, nonsense
4 tongue (1) organ of speech in your mouth, (2) language
5 chill a feeling of coldness; a feeling of fear and discouragement
6 gathered collective, having been brought together
7 sloop a small sailing ship with one mast
8 coop a small enclosure or cage, e.g., for chickens or small animals
9 pail a bucket
10 gingerbread Fr. pain d’épice
11 mould Fr. moule
2
good birchwood, on fiddles1, school slates2, spinning-tops3 — my breath
catches4, my heart jumps. O the holy dread of it! Of having under your
tongue the first and last words of all those generations down there in your
blood, down there in the earth, for whom these syllables were the magic
once for calling the whole of creation to come striding5, swaying6, singing
towards them. I look at this old fellow and my heart stops, I do not know
what to say to him.
I am curious, of course — what else does it mean to be a scholar
but to be curious and to have a passion for the preserving of things? I
would like to have him speak a word or two in his own tongue. But the
desire is frivolous, I am ashamed to ask. And in what language would I do
it? This foreign one? Which I speak out of politeness because I am a visitor
here, and speak well because I have learned it, and he because it is the
only one he can share now with his contemporaries, with those who fill
the days with him — the language (he appears to know only a handful of
words) of those who feed, clothe, employ him, and whose great energy,
and a certain gift for changing and doing things, has set all this land under
another tongue. For the land too is in another language now. All its capes7
and valleys have new names; so do its creatures — even the insects that
make their own skirling8, racketing9 sound under stones. The first
landscape here is dead. It dies in this man’s eyes as his tongue licks the
edge of the horizon, before it has quite dried up in his mouth. There is a
new one now that others are making.
So. It is because I am a famous visitor, a scholarly freak from
another continent, that we have been brought together. We have nothing
to say to one another. I come to the fire where he sits with the rest of the
men and accept a mug of their sweet scalding10 tea. I squat with difficulty
in my yellow trousers. We nod to one another. He regards me with
curiosity, with a kind of shy amusement, and sees what? Not fir forests,
surely, for which he can have neither picture nor word, or lakes, snowpeaks, a white bird’s wing. The sun perhaps, our northern one, making a
long path back into the dark, and the print of our feet, black tracks upon
it.
Nothing is said. The men are constrained by the presence of a
stranger, but also perhaps by the presence of the boss. They make only
the most rudimentary attempts at talk: slow monosyllabic remarks, halfswallowed with the tea. The thread of community11 here is strung with a
1
fiddle violin, esp. one used to play folk or country music
slate a writing tablet of slate (type of dark grey stone), used in the past in schools
for children to write on
3 spinning top an old-fashioned toy (Fr. toupie)
4 my breath catches I stop breathing for a moment because of fear or shock
5 stride to walk with long steps in a particular direction
6 sway to move slowly from side to side
7 cape a strip of high land projecting into the sea, a promontery
8 skirling (of a sound) high, shrill
9 racketing very loud
10 scalding (esp. of steam or a liquid) so hot it can burn your skin or your mouth
11 thread of community that which holds the group together (thread = Fr. fil)
2
few shy words and expletives — grunts, caws1, soft bursts of laughter that
go back before syntax; the man no more talkative than the rest, but a
presence just the same.
I feel his silence. He sits here, solid, black, sipping his tea and
flicking away with his left hand at a fly that returns again and again to a
spot beside his mouth; looks up so level, so much on the horizontal, under
the brim of his hat.
Things centre themselves upon him — that is what I feel, it is
2
eerie — as on the one and only repository of a name they will lose if he
is no longer there to keep it in mind. He holds thus, on a loose thread, the
whole circle of shabby-looking trees, the bushes with their hidden life, the
infinitesimal coming and going among grassroots or on ant-trails between
stones, the minds of small native creatures that come creeping to the
edge of the scene and look in at us from their other lives. He gives no sign
of being special. When their smoking time is up, he rises with the rest,
stretches a little, spits in the palm of his hand, and goes silently to his
work.
‘Yes boss, you wanna see me’ — neither a statement nor a
question, the only words I have heard him speak...
I must confess it. He has given me a fright. Perhaps it is only that
I am cut off here from the use of my own tongue (though I have never felt
such a thing on previous travels, in France, Greece, Egypt), but I find it
necessary, in the privacy of my little room with its marble-topped
washbasin and commodious3 jug and basin, and the engraving of Naomi
bidding farewell to Ruth4 — I find it necessary as I pace up and down on
the scrubbed boards in the heat of a long December night, to go over
certain words as if it were only my voice naming them in the dark that
kept the loved objects solid and touchable in the light up there, on the top
side5 of the world. (Goodness knows what sort of spells my hostess thinks
I am making, or the children, who see me already as a spook, a half-comic,
half-sinister wizard of the north.)
So I say softly as I curl up with the sheet over my head, or walk up
and down, or stand at the window a moment before this plain that burns
even at midnight: rogn, valnøtt, spiseskje, hakke, vinglass, lysestake,
krabbe, kjegle...6
1
caw the throaty, hoarse sound made by a crow or similar bird
eerie creepy, weird, strange
3 commodious spacious, large
4 Naomi, Ruth Biblical figures (Naomi is Ruth’s mother-in-law in the Old Testament
“Book of Ruth”)
5 top side the northern hemisphere
6 (all words from Norwegian, the narrator’s mother tongue) rogn (1) rowan,
mountain ash (small tree that has berries in autumn), (2) roe (eggs of fish) valnøtt
walnut; spiseskje tablespoon; hakke pick, pickaxe (Fr. pioche); vinglass wineglass;
lysestake candle-stick; krabbe crab; kjegle (1) cone, (2) bowling pin (Fr. quille)
2
McNickle, D’Arcy “Hard Riding” (?1930s)
Riding his gray1 mare a hard gallop in the summer dust, Brinder Mather
labored2 with thought which couldn’t quite come into focus3.
The horse labored4 too, its gait5 growing heavy as loose sand
fouled6 its footing7; but at each attempt to break stride8 into a trot,
there was the prick of spur9 point, a jerk10 at the reins. It was a habit
with the rider.
“Keep going! Earn your feed, you hammerhead11!”
Brinder was always saying that his horses didn’t earn their
feed. Yet he was the hardest rider in the country.
Feeling as he did about horses, he quite naturally had doubts
about Indians. And he had to work with Indians. He was their superintendent12 ... a nurse to their helplessness, was the way he sometimes
thought of it.
It was getting toward sundown. The eastward mirror of the sky
reflected orange and crimson13 flame thwarting14 the prismatic15
heavens. It was after supper, after a hard day at the Agency office, and
Brinder was anxious to get his task done and be home to rest. The heat
of the day had fagged16 him. His focusing thought came out in words,
audibly.
“They’ve been fooling17 with the idea for a month, more than
a month, and I still can’t tell what they’ll do. Somehow I’ve got to put
Text based on posthumous publication in McNickle, D’Arcy (1992). The Hawk Is Hungry
And Other Stories, edited by Birgit Hans. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.
Many thanks are due to Xavier Henrotte, whose end-of-year paper in English
Literature (UNamur, ba3, 2010-2011) provided the basis for the present edition.
Explanations carrying the mention [N.A.A.L.] have been borrowed from McNickle,
D’Arcy (1992 [1989]), Hard Riding, Norton Anthology of American Literature (New
York: W.W. Norton & Company, 4th edition).
1
gray grey
labor (AmE.) to exert one’s powers of mind (here: mental exertion)
3 come into focus to be clearly apprehended or perceived
4 labor (AmE.) to work hard; to make great effort (here: physical exertion)
5 gait the way that sby walks
6 foul to clog or obstruct
7 footing a secure placement of the feet in standing or moving
8 break stride to slow or interrupt the pace at which one walks or moves
9 spur a metal object on the heel of a rider’s boot that the rider presses into a horse’s
side to make it go faster
10 jerk a strong sudden pull
11 hammerhead a stupid person (here: stupid animal)
12 superintendent sby in charge of sth
13 crimson a dark purple-red colour
14 thwart to traverse, to cross, to extend from side to side
15 prismatic brilliantly colored; iridescent
16 fag to exhaust
17 fool to speak or act in a joking, frivolous, or teasing way; to joke
2
McNickle “Hard Riding” (2)
it over1. Either put it over or drop it2. I’ll tell them that. Take it or leave
it....”
Ahead, another mile, he saw the white schoolhouse, the
windows ablaze3 with the evening sun. He wondered if those he had
called together would be there, if they would all be there. A full turnout4, he reasoned, would indicate that they were interested. He could
be encouraged if he saw them all on hand5.
As he drew nearer, he observed that a group stood waiting. He
tried to estimate the number ... twelve or fifteen. Others were still
coming. There were riders in the distance coming by other roads. The
frown relaxed on his heavy, sun-reddened face. For the moment he
was satisfied. He had called the entire Tribal Council of twenty, and
evidently they would all be on hand. Good!
He let his horse slow to less than a canter6 for the first time in
the three-mile ride from the Agency.
“Hello, boys. Everybody coming tonight? Let’s go inside.”
He strode7, tall and dignified, through the group.
They smiled to his words, saying nothing. One by one they
followed him into the schoolroom. He was always for starting things
with a rush8; they always hung back9. It was a familiar pattern. He
walked to the teacher’s desk and spread out before him a sheaf10 of
paper which he had brought in a heavy envelope.
In five years one got to know something about Indians. Even
in one’s first job as superintendent of a Reservation, five years was a
good schooling.
The important thing, the first thing to learn, was not to let
them stall11 you. They would do it every time if you let them. They
would say to a new idea, “Let us talk about that” or “Give us time. We’ll
think about it.” One had to know when to cut short. Put it over or drop
it. Take it or leave it.
Not realizing that at the start, he had let these crazy Mountain
12
Indians stall on him a long time before he had begun to get results.
He had come to them with a simple idea and only now, after five years,
was it beginning to work.
Cattle ... that was the idea. Beef cattle. Blooded13 stock14.
1
put sth over to communicate sth (here: an idea) effectively
drop sth to abandon, discard or exclude sth (here: an idea)
3 ablaze very brightly coloured or lighted
4 turn-out the number of people attending an event
5 on hand present
6 canter the way a horse runs when it canters (Fr. petit gallop)
7 stride to walk with long, decisive steps in a specified direction
8 rush hurry, haste
9 hang back to remain behind
10 sheaf a bundle of objects of one kind, esp. papers
11 stall to cause to stop, to bring to a standstill
12 Mountain Indians tribes living in the mountains and therefore having little
experience with cattle-raising
13 blooded (of horses or cattle) of good pedigree
14 stock group of animals having the same descent
2
Good bulls. Fall1 round-ups2. The shipment East3. Cash profits. In
language as simple as that he had finally got them to see his point. He
had a special liking for cattle. It began long before he had ever seen an
Indian, back home in New York State. Boyhood reading about hard
riding and fast shooting on the cattle trails4 ... that was what started it.
Then, in his first job in the Indian Service, he had worked under a hardminded Scotchman whose record as a stockman5 was unbeatable. He
had learned the gospel6 from him. He learned to talk the lingo7.
“Indians don’t know, more than that don’t give a damn8, about
dragging their feet9 behind a plow10. Don’t say as I blame ’em. But
Indians’ll always ride horses. They’re born to that. And if they’re going
to ride horses they might as well be riding herd11 on a bunch of
steers12. It pays money.”
He put it that way, following his Scotch preceptor13. He put it
to the Indians, to Washington officials, and to anybody he could
buttonhole14 for a few minutes. It was a complete gospel. It was
appropriations of money from Congress for cattle purchases. It won
flattering remarks from certain visitors who were always around
inquiring about Indian welfare15. In time, it won over the Indians. It
should have won them sooner.
The point was just that, not to let them stall on you. Alter five
years he had learned his lesson. Put it over, or drop it.
He had taken off his broad-brimmed16 cattleman’s hat and laid
it on the desk beside his papers. The hat was part of the creed17. He
surveyed the score of wordless, pensive, buckskin18-smelling Indians,
some slouched forward19, holding their big hats between their knees;
others, hats on, silently smoking.
1
fall (taking place in) autumn
round-up the act of bringing together a herd of cattle, esp. by going round (the
reservation was unfenced)
3 shipment East transportation by train towards the East where the cattle is to be
sold
4 cattle trail a trail (i.e. a path or track roughly blazed through wild or hilly country)
over which cattle were driven to market
5 stockman a person who looks after livestock
6 gospel (here) a set of principles or beliefs
7 lingo a strange language other than your own; jargon
8 not give a damn not care at all
9 drag one’s feet to walk slowly and wearily or with difficulty
10 plow (AmE.) plough, i.e. a piece of equipment used for turning over the soil
11 herd a large group of animals that live together or are kept together as livestock
12 steer a bullock; a male domestic bovine animal that has been castrated and is
raised for beef
13 preceptor a teacher or instructor
14 buttonhole to stop sby and make them listen to what you have to say when they
do not really want to
15 welfare the health, happiness, and fortunes of a person or group
16 broad-brimmed (of a hat) having a wide brim (Fr. bord)
17 creed (here) a set of beliefs or aims which guide sby’s actions
18 buckskin soft leather made from the skin of deer or goats, used for making gloves,
bags, etc.
19 slouch forward to sit, walk, or stand with your shoulders bent forward and your
head low so that you look lazy
2
He had to put it across1, this thing he wanted them to do. He
had to do it now, tonight, or else drop it. That was what he had
concluded.
“I think you fellows have learned a lot since I been with you. I
appreciate the way you co-operate with me. Sometimes it’s kinda hard
to make things clear, but once you see what it means to you, you’re all
for it. I like that.” He paused and mopped2 his brow3. The schoolroom
was an oven. The meeting should have been held outside — but never
mind.
“In our stock association, we run4 our cattle together on a
common range5. We share the costs of riding range, rounding up,
branding6, and buying breeding bulls. Every time you sell a steer you
pay a five-dollar fee into the pot, and that’s what pays the bills. That’s
one of the things I had to tell you about. You didn’t understand at first,
but once you did, you went ahead. Today, it’s paying dividends.
“You never had as much cash profit in your life before. Your
steers are better beef animals, because the breeding7 is better. We got
the class in8 bulls. And you get better prices because you can dicker9
with the buyers. But you know all that. I’m just reminding you.”
Someone coughed in the back of the room and Brinder, always
on guard, like the cowboys contending10 with rustlers11 and sheepmen12 he used to read about, straightened his back and looked sharply.
But it was only a cough, repeated several times — an irritating,
ineffective kind of cigarette cough. No one else in the audience made
a sound. All were held in the spell of Brinder’s words, or at any rate
were waiting for him to finish what he had to say.
“We have one bad defect yet. You know what I mean, but I’ll
mention it just the same. In other words, fellows, we all of us know
that every year a certain number of cattle disappear. The wolves don’t
get them and they don’t die of natural causes. They are always strong,
fat, two- or three-year-old steers that disappear, the kind that wolves
don’t monkey with13 and that don’t die naturally. I ain’t pointing my
finger at anybody, but you know as well’s I do that there’s a certain
element on the Reservation that don’t deserve fresh meat, but always
has it. They’re too lazy or too ornery14 or they just don’t know what it’s
all about. But they get fresh meat just the same.
1
put sth across to communicate sth (here: an idea) effectively
mop to wipe moisture (here: sweat) from
3 brow the forehead
4 run to be in charge of; to manage
5 range an extensive area of open land on which livestock wander and graze
6 brand to mark with a branding iron
7 breeding the raising (of animals)
8 the class in the best
9 dicker to bargain, to discuss in order to agree on a price
10 contend to struggle
11 rustler a person who steals farm animals
12 sheepman a sheep rancher
13 monkey with to tamper with
14 ornery bad-tempered and difficult to deal with
2
“I want you fellows to get this. Let it sink in deep. Every time a
fat steer goes to feed some Slick Steve too lazy to earn his keep1, some
of you are out around seventy-five, eighty dollars. You lose that much.
Ponder that, you fellows.”
He rustled2 the papers on the desk, looking for a row of figures:
number of beef animals lost in five years (estimated), their money
value, in round numbers. He hurled3 his figures at them, cudgeling4.
“Some of you don’t mind the loss. Because it’s poor people
getting the meat. It keeps someone from starving. That’s what you say.
What I say is — that ain’t a proper way to look at it. First of all, because
it’s stealing and we can’t go to countenancing5 stealing, putting up
with it, I mean. Nobody has to starve, remember that. If you want to
do something on your own book for the old people who can’t work,
you can. You can do what you like with your money. But lazy people,
these Slick Steves who wouldn’t work on a bet, nobody should give it
easy to them, that’s what I’m saying.”
He waited a moment, letting the words find their way home.
“There’s a solution, as I told you last month. We want to set up a court,
a court of Indian judges, and you will deal with these fellows in your
own way. Give a few of them six months in jail to think it over, and
times will begin to change around here....”
That was the very point he had reached the last time he talked
to the Council, a month before. He had gone no further, then, because
they had begun asking questions, and from their questions he had
discovered that they hadn’t the least idea what he was driving at6. Or
so they made it appear. “If we have a tribal court,” somebody would
ask, “do we have to put somebody in jail?” That, obviously, was
intentionally naive. It was intended to stall him off. Or some old man
would say: “If somebody has to go to jail, let the Superintendent do it.
Why should we have to start putting our own people in jail?” Such
nonsense as that had been talked.
Finally, the perennial7 question of money came up. Would the
Government pay for the court? A treacherous question, and he had
answered without flinching8.
“That’s another thing,” he had said brightly. “We’re going to
get away from the idea of the Government paying for everything.
Having your own business this way, making a profit from it, you can
pay for this yourselves. That will make you independent. It will be your
own court, not the Government’s court, not the Superintendent’s
court. No. The court will be supported by the fee money you pay when
1
earn one’s keep to work in return for food and accommodation
rustle to cause sth (here: the papers) to make a rustling sound, i.e. to move with
soft fluttering or crackling sounds
3 hurl to utter vehemently
4 cudgel to hit sby with a cudgel or thick stick (here used figuratively)
5 countenance to consent to
6 what sby is driving at the point that sby is attempting to make
7 perennial happening again and again; eternal
8 flinch to shrink or drew back
2
you sell a steer.
That speech broke up the meeting. It was greeted1 by a
confusion of talk in the native tongue which gradually subsided2 in
form of one speaker, one of the ancients, who obviously was a
respected leader. Afterwards, a young, English-speaking tribesman3
translated.
“The old man here, Looking Glass, says the Gover’ment don’t
give us nothing for nothing. The money it spends on us, that’s our own
money, he says. It belongs to us and they keep it there at Washington,
and nobody can say how much it is or how much has been lost. He
says, where is all that money that they can’t afford to pay for this
court? That’s what he says.”
There was the snare4 which tripped up5 most Agency plans,
6
scratch an old Indian, and the reaction was always the same.
“Where’s the money the Government owes us? Where’s our land?
Where’s our treaty?” They were like a whistle7 with only one stop8,
those old fellows. Their tune was invariable, relentless9 and shrill10.
That was why one dreaded holding a meeting when the old men were
present. Now the young fellows, who understood Agency plans....
Anyhow, here he was trying it again, going over the plan with
great care and patience. Much of the misunderstanding had been
ironed out11 in the meantime. So he had been led to believe.
“This court will put an end to all this trouble,” he was going on,
trying to gauge12 the effect of his words, watching for a reaction. At
last it came. One of the old men was getting to his feet.
He was a small man, emaciated13 by age and thin living14, yet
neat15 looking. His old wife, obviously, took good care of his clothes,
sewed buckskin patches16 on his overalls17 and kept him in new
moccasins. He talked firmly, yet softly, and not for very long. He sat
down as soon as he had finished and let the interpreter translate for
him.
“The old man here, Big Face, says the court, maybe, is all right.
They have talked it over among themselves, and maybe it’s all right.
Our agent, he says, is a good man. He rides too fast. He talks too fast.
1
greet to react to sby or sth in a particular way
subside to abate; to decrease; to become weaker or less agitated
3 tribesman a person belonging to a tribe in a traditional society or group
4 snare an unpleasant situation from which it is hard to escape (Fr. piège)
5 trip up to catch your foot on sth and fall (here used in figurative sense)
6 scratch to rub or scrub lightly (Fr. gratter)
7 whistle a small wind instrument for making whistling sounds by means of the
breath
8 stop finger hole of a wind instrument
9 relentless not stopping; pitiless
10 shrill very high and loud, in an unpleasant way
11 iron out to get rid of any problems or difficulties that are affecting sth
12 gauge to estimate
13 emaciated thin and weak, usually because of illness or lack of food
14 thin living having very limited financial means
15 neat tidy
16 patch a small piece of material that is used to cover a hole in sth or as decoration
17 overalls a loose coat worn over other clothes to protect them from dirt etc.
2
But he has a good heart, so maybe the court is all right. That’s what Big
Face says.”
The words were good, and Brinder caught himself smiling,
which was bad practice when dealing with the old fellows. They were
masters at laying traps1 for the unwary2 — that, too, he had learned in
five years. Their own expressions never changed, once they got going,
and you could never tell what might be in their minds.
Just the same, he felt easier. Big Face, the most argumentative
of the lot, had come around3 to accept this new idea, and that was
something gained. The month had not been lost.
He had something more to say. He was getting to his feet
again, giving a tug4 to his belt5 and looking around, as if to make sure
of his following. He had been appointed spokesman. That much was
clear.
He made a somewhat longer speech, in which he seemed to
express agitation, perhaps uncertainty. One could never be sure of
tone values. Sometimes the most excitable sounding passages of this
strange tongue were very tame6 in English. Brinder had stopped
smiling and waited for the translation.
“Big Face here says there’s only one thing they can’t decide
about. That’s about judges. Nobody wants to be a judge. That’s what
they don’t like. Maybe the court is all right, but nobody wants to be
judge.”
Brinder was rather stumped7 by that. He rose to his feet,
quickly, giving everyone a sharp glance. Was this the trap?
“Tell the old man I don’t understand that. It is an honor, being
a judge. People pay money to be a judge in some places. Tell Big Face
I don’t understand his objection.”
The old man was on his feet as soon as the words had been
translated for him.
“It’s like this. To be a judge, you got to be about perfect. You
got to know everything, and you got to live up to8 it. Otherwise, you
got nothing to say to anybody who does wrong. Anybody who puts
himself up9 to be that good, he’s just a liar. And people will laugh at
him. We are friends among ourselves and nobody interferes in another
person’s business. That’s how it is, and nobody wants to set himself
up10 and be a judge. That’s what Big Face says.”
There it was — as neatly contrived11 a little pitfall12 as he had
1
trap any device or plan for tricking a person or thing into being caught unawares
unwary not cautious of possible dangers or problems
3 come around to be converted to another person’s opinion
4 tug a sudden hard pull
5 belt Fr. ceinture
6 tame not interesting or exciting
7 stumped surprised
8 live up to to fulfil (expectations)
9 put oneself up to put oneself forward as; to claim to be
10 set oneself up to put oneself forward as; to claim to be
11 contrived deliberately created rather than arising naturally or spontaneously
12 pitfall a hidden or unsuspected danger or difficulty
2
ever seen. He had to admire it — all the time letting himself get
furious. Not that he let them see it. No, in five years, he had learned
that much. Keep your head1, and when in doubt, talk your head off2.
He drew a deep breath and plunged3 into an explanation of all the
things he had already explained, reminding them of the money they
lost each year, of the worthless fellows who were making an easy living
from their efforts, of the proper way to deal with the problem. He
repeated all the arguments and threw in as many more as he could
think of.
“You have decided all this. You agree the court is a good thing.
But how can you have a court without judges? It’s the judges that make
a court.”
He couldn’t tell whether he was getting anywhere or not — in
all likelihood, not. They were talking all together once more and it
didn’t look as if they were paying much attention to him. He waited.
“What’s it all about?” he finally asked the interpreter, a young
mixed-blood, who was usually pretty good about telling Brinder which
way the wind of thought blew among the old people.
“I can’t make out4,” the interpreter murmured, drawing5
closer to Brinder. “They are saying lots of things. But I think they’re
going to decide on the judges — they’ve got some kind of plan —
watch out for it — now, one of the old men will speak.”
It was Big Face raising to his feet once more. Looking smaller,
more wizened6 than ever. The blurring7 twilight8 of the room absorbed
some of his substance and made Brinder feel that he was losing his
grip9 on the situation. A shadow is a difficult adversary and Big Face
was rapidly turning into one.
“The agent wants this court. He thinks it’s a good thing. So we
have talked some more — and we agree. We will have this court.” He
paused briefly, allowing Brinder only a moment’s bewilderment10.
“Only we couldn’t decide who would be judge. Some said this
one, some said that one. It was hard....”
Brinder coughed. “Have you decided on any one, Big Face?”
He no longer knew which way things were drifting11 but only hoped for
the best.
The old fellow’s eyes, misted by age12, actually twinkled13. In
1
keep one’s head to remain calm
talk one’s head off to talk continuously
3 plunge to get suddenly very involved in the explanation
4 make out to manage to see or hear sth
5 draw to move somewhere in a slow steady way
6 wizened old and having a wrinkled skin
7 blurring becoming more and more blurred (unclear, dim)
8 twilight the soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon,
caused by the reflection of the sun’s rays from the atmosphere
9 grip a strong hold of sth
10 bewilderment feeling of being confused and unable to understand sth
11 drift to move, being carried by the flow of events which are beyond your control
12 misted by age having becoming dim, cloudy... as a result of old age
13 twinkle to show excitement
2
the body of councillors1 somebody laughed and coughed in the same
breath. Feet stirred and bodies shifted2. Something was in the air.
Haltingly3, Big Face named the men — the most amazing trio the
Reservation had to offer.
“Walks-in-the-Ground — Jacob Gopher — Twisted Horn ...”
In the silence that followed, Brinder tried hard to believe he
had heard the wrong names. A mistake had been made. It was
impossible to take it seriously. These three men — no, it was
impossible! The first, an aged imbecile dripping4 saliva — ready to die!
The second, stone deaf and blind! The third, an utter5 fool, a halfwitted6 clown, to whom no one listened.
“You mean this?” Brinder still could not see the full situation,
but was afraid that the strategy was deliberate and final.
“Those will be the judges of this court,” Big Face replied,
smiling in his usual friendly way.
“But these men can’t be judges! They are too old, or else too
foolish. No one will listen to them ...” Brinder broke off7 short. He saw
that he had stated the strategy of the old men especially as they had
intended it. His friendliness withered away8.
Big Face did not hesitate, did not break off smiling. “It is better,
we think, that fools should be judges. If people won’t listen to them,
no one will mind.”
Brinder had nothing to say, not just then. He let the front legs
of his chair drop to the floor, picked up his hat. His face had paled.
After five years — still to let this happen... Using great effort, he turned
it off as a joke. “Boys, you should of elected me judge to your kangaroo
court9. I would have made a crackerjack10.”
The Indians laughed and didn’t know what he meant, not
exactly. But maybe he was right.
1
councillor a member of a council
shift to change the position of one’s body, esp. because one is nervous or
uncomfortable
3 haltingly uncertainly, with a lot of pauses
4 drip to let fall small drops of liquid (here: saliva)
5 utter complete
6 half-witted foolish or stupid
7 break off to stop sth (here: talking) abruptly
8 wither away to become less or weaker before disappearing completely
9 kangaroo court a mock court in which the principles of justice are ignored or
perverted
10 would have made a crackerjack (coll.) would have become sth excellent
2
Porter, Katherine Anne “Flowering Judas1” (1930)
Braggioni sits heaped upon2 the edge of a straight-backed chair much
too small for him, and sings to Laura3 in a furry4, mournful voice. Laura
has begun to find reasons for avoiding her own house until the latest
possible moment, for Braggioni is there almost every night. No matter
how late she is, he will be sitting there with a surly5, waiting
expression, pulling at his kinky6 yellow hair, thumbing7 the strings of
his guitar, snarling8 a tune under his breath. Lupe the Indian maid
meets Laura at the door, and says with a flicker9 of a glance towards
the upper room, “He waits.”
Laura wishes to lie down, she is tired of her hairpins10 and the
feel of her long tight sleeves, but she says to him, “Have you a new
song for me this evening?” If he says yes, she asks him to sing it. If he
says no, she remembers his favorite one, and asks him to sing it again.
Lupe brings her a cup of chocolate and a plate of rice, and Laura eats
at the small table under the lamp, first inviting Braggioni, whose
answer is always the same: “I have eaten, and besides, chocolate
thickens11 the voice.”
Laura says, “Sing, then,” and Braggioni heaves12 himself into
song. He scratches the guitar familiarly as though it were a pet13
animal, and sings passionately off key14, taking the high notes in a
prolonged painful squeal15. Laura, who haunts the markets listening to
the ballad singers, and stops every day to hear the blind boy playing
his reed-flute16 in Sixteenth of September Street17, listens to Braggioni
with pitiless courtesy, because she dares not smile at his miserable
Text based on: Baym, Nina, ed. 2003. The Norton Anthology of American Literature.
New York: W.W. Norton & Company.
1
Judas tree name of a tree, bearing purple blossoms; according to legend, Judas
Iscariot hanged himself from such a tree after betraying Jesus (Norton)
2 sit heaped upon a chair (said of a corpulent person) comfortably settled in a chair
3 Laura name of the beloved to whom Petrarch (1304-1374) addressed his famous
love sonnets
4 furry Fr. voilé
5 surly bad-tempered and rude
6 kinky curly, knotted
7 thumb to touch or move sth with your thumb
8 snarl to speak in an angry or bad-tempered way
9 flicker a small, sudden movement with part of the body
10 hairpin a small thin piece of wire that is folded in the middle, used by women for
holding their hair in place
11 thicken to make sth thicker
12 heave to lift, pull or throw sb/sth very heavy with one great effort
13 pet a animal, bird, etc. that you have at home for pleasure, rather than one that is
kept for work or food
14 off key not in tune
15 squeal long loud high sound or cry
16 reed-flute a flute with a thin piece of wood or metal that vibrates and produces
sound when air is blown over it
17 Sixteen of September Street street in Morelia, a city in western Mexico where the
story is set (Norton)
Porter “Flowering Judas” (2)
performance. Nobody dares to smile at him. Braggioni is cruel to
everyone, with a kind of specialized insolence1, but he is so vain2 of his
talents, and so sensitive to slights3, it would require a cruelty and
vanity greater than his own to lay a finger on the vast cureless wound
of his self-esteem. It would require courage, too, for it is dangerous to
offend him, and nobody has this courage.
Braggioni loves himself with such tenderness and amplitude
and eternal charity that his followers — for he is a leader of men, a
skilled4 revolutionist, and his skin has been punctured5 in honorable
warfare — warm themselves in the reflected glow6, and say to each
other: “He has a real nobility, a love of humanity raised above mere
personal affections.” The excess of this self-love has flowed out7,
inconveniently for her, over Laura, who, with so many others, owes
her comfortable situation and her salary to him. When he is in a very
good humor, he tells her, “I am tempted to forgive you for being a
gringa. Gringita!”8 and Laura, burning, imagines herself leaning
forward suddenly, and with a sound9 back-handed slap10 wiping11 the
suety12 smile from his face. If he notices her eyes at these moments he
gives no sign.
She knows what Braggioni would offer her, and she must resist
tenaciously13 without appearing to resist, and if she could avoid it she
would not admit even to herself the slow drift14 of his intention. During
these long evenings which have spoiled a long month for her, she sits
in her deep chair with an open book on her knees, resting her eyes on
the consoling rigidity of the printed page when the sight and sound of
Braggioni singing threaten to identify themselves with all her
remembered afflictions and to add their weight to her uneasy
premonitions of the future. The gluttonous15 bulk16 of Braggioni has
become a symbol of her many disillusions, for a revolutionist should
be lean17, animated by heroic faith, a vessel18 of abstract virtues. This
is nonsense, she knows it now and is ashamed of it. Revolution must
have leaders, and leadership is a career for energetic men. She is, her
1
insolence the trait of being rude and impertinent
vain too proud of your own appearance, abilities or achievements
3 slight an insult
4 skilled having enough ability, experience and knowledge to be able to do sth well
5 puncture to make or get a small hole
6 glow a dull steady light, esp. from a fire that has stopped producing flames
7 flow out to pour over (like a liquid)
8 gringita a young female foreigner, non-Mexican girl; a patronizing term meaning
“cute little foreign girl.” (diminutive of gringa, which is used pejoratively esp. for an
American) (Norton)
9 sound severe
10 slap the action of hitting sb/sth with the flat part of your hand
11 wipe to remove dirt, liquid, etc. from sth by using a cloth, your hand, etc.
12 suety like or full of suet (fat), greasy
13 tenacious determined
14 drift the general meaning of what sb says or writes
15 gluttonous given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink
16 bulk an unusually large, fat or shapeless body
17 lean without much flesh; thin and fit
18 vessel a container, receptacle
2
comrades tell her, full of romantic error, for what she defines as
cynicism in them is merely “a developed sense of reality.” She is almost
too willing to say, “I am wrong, I suppose I don’t really understand the
principles,” and afterward she makes a secret truce1 with herself,
determined not to surrender her will to such expedient2 logic. But she
cannot help feeling that she has been betrayed irreparably by the
disunion between her way of living and her feeling of what life should
be, and at times she is almost contented to rest in this sense of
grievance3 as a private store of consolation. Sometimes she wishes to
run away, but she stays. Now she longs to fly out of this room, down
the narrow stairs, and into the street where the houses lean together
like conspirators under a single mottled4 lamp, and leave Braggioni
singing to himself.
Instead she looks at Braggioni, frankly and clearly, like a good
child who understands the rules of behavior. Her knees cling together5
under sound6 blue serge7, and her round white collar is not purposely
nun-like. She wears the uniform of an idea, and has renounced
vanities. She was born Roman Catholic, and in spite of her fear of being
seen by someone who might make a scandal of it, she slips now and
again into8 some crumbling little church, kneels on the chilly stone, and
says a Hail Mary9 on the gold rosary10 she bought in Tehuantepec11. It
is no good and she ends by examining the altar with its tinsel12 flowers
and ragged13 brocades14, and feels tender about the battered15 dollshape16 of some male saint whose white, lace-trimmed17 drawers18
hang limply19 around his ankles below the hieratic20 dignity of his
velvet21 robe. She has encased22 herself in a set of principles derived
from her early training, leaving no detail of gesture or of personal taste
untouched, and for this reason she will not wear lace made on
1
truce an agreement between enemies or opponents to stop fighting for an agreed
period of time
2 expedient useful or necessary for a particular purpose, but not always fair or right
3 grievance sth that you think is unfair and that you complain or protest about
4 mottled worked with shapes of different colours without a regular pattern
5 cling together to hold or keep together very tightly
6 sound in good condition; free from defect or damage or decay
7 serge a type of strong cloth made of wool, used for making clothes
8 slip into to go somewhere quickly and quietly, esp. without being noticed
9 Hail Mary Roman Catholic prayer to Mary
10 rosary a string of beads used esp. by Roman Catholics for counting prayers
11 Tehuantepec a town and municipality in the southeast of the Mexican state of
Oaxaca
12 tinsel strips of shiny material like metal, used as decorations
13 ragged old and torn
14 brocade a decorative cloth with a raised pattern of gold and silver threads
15 battered old, used a lot, and not in a very good condition
16 doll-shape with the shape of a doll (child’s toy in the shape of a person, esp. a
baby or a child)
17 lace-trimmed decorated with lace (delicate material made from threads of cotton,
silk, etc. that are twisted into a pattern of holes)
18 drawers long underpants
19 limply without rigidity
20 hieratic associated with the priesthood or priests
21 velvet a type of cloth made from silk, cotton or nylon, with a thick soft surface
22 encase to enclose in
machines. This is her private heresy, for in her special group the
machine is sacred, and will be the salvation of the workers. She loves
fine lace, and there is a tiny edge of fluted1 cobweb2 on this collar,
which is one of twenty precisely alike, folded in blue tissue paper in
the upper drawer3 of her clothes chest4.
Braggioni catches her glance solidly5 as if he had been waiting
for it, leans forward, balancing his paunch6 between his spread knees,
and sings with tremendous emphasis, weighing his words. He has, the
song relates, no father and no mother, nor even a friend to console
him; lonely as a wave of the sea he comes and goes, lonely as a wave.
His mouth opens round and yearns7 sideways, his balloon cheeks grow
oily8 with the labor of song. He bulges9 marvelously in his expensive
garments. Over his lavender10 collar, crushed upon11 a purple necktie,
held by a diamond hoop12: over his ammunition13 belt of tooled14
leather worked in silver, buckled15 cruelly around his gasping16 middle:
over the tops of his glossy17 yellow shoes Braggioni swells with
ominous18 ripeness, his mauve silk hose19 stretched taut20, his ankles
bound with the stout21 leather thongs22 of his shoes.
When he stretches his eyelids at Laura she notes again that his
eyes are the true tawny23 yellow cat’s eyes. He is rich, not in money,
he tells her, but in power, and this power brings with it the blameless
ownership of things, and the right to indulge24 his love of small
luxuries. “I have a taste for the elegant refinements,” he said once,
flourishing25 a yellow silk handkerchief before her nose. “Smell that? It
is Jockey Club26, imported from New York.” Nonetheless he is
1
fluted (especially of a round object) with a pattern of curves cut around the outside
cobweb a very fine fabric, resembling a spider’s web
3 drawer a part of a piece of furniture such as a desk, used for keeping things in. It is
shaped like a box and has a handle on the front for pulling it out
4 chest a large, strong box usually made of wood, used for storing things in and/or
moving them from one place to another
5 solidly continuously
6 paunch a fat stomach of a man
7 yearn to be full of compassion, desire, affection
8 oily feeling, tasting, smelling or looking like oil
9 bulge to swell or curve outwards
10 lavender a pale purple colour
11 crush upon to push or press sb/sth into a small space
12 hoop a large ring of plastic, wood or iron
13 ammunition a supply of bullets, etc. to be fired from guns
14 tooled decorated with patters or letters
15 buckle to fasten sth
16 gasping breathing laboriously or convulsively
17 glossy smooth and shiny
18 ominous suggesting that sth bad is going to happen in the future
19 hose trousers/pants that fit tightly over the legs, worn by men in the past
20 stretched taut stretched tightly
21 stout strong and thick
22 thong a narrow strip of leather that is used to fasten sth
23 tawny brownish-yellow in colour
24 indulge to satisfy a particular desire, interest, etc.
25 flourish to wave sth around in a way that makes people look at it
26 Jockey Club (1) brand name of expensive perfume; (2) influential and exclusive
society in late 19th and early 20th century Mexico, symbol of opulence and foreign
influence
2
wounded by life. He will say so presently1. “It is true everything turns
to dust in the hand, to gall2 on the tongue.” He sighs and his leather
belt creaks like a saddle girth3. “I am disappointed in everything as it
comes. Everything.” He shakes his head. “You, poor thing, you will be
disappointed too. You are born for it. We are more alike than you
realize in some things. Wait and see. Some day you will remember
what I have told you, you will know that Braggioni was your friend.”
Laura feels a slow chill, a purely physical sense of danger, a
warning in her blood that violence, mutilation, a shocking death, wait
for her with lessening patience. She has translated this fear into
something homely4, immediate, and sometimes hesitates before
crossing the street. “My personal fate is nothing, except as the
testimony of a mental attitude,” she reminds herself, quoting from
some forgotten philosophic primer5, and is sensible enough to add,
“Anyhow, I shall not be killed by an automobile if I can help it.”
“It may be true I am as corrupt, in another way, as Braggioni,”
she thinks in spite of herself, “as callous6, as incomplete,” and if this is
so, any kind of death seems preferable. Still she sits quietly, she does
not run. Where could she go? Uninvited she has promised herself to
this place; she can no longer imagine herself as living in another
country, and there is no pleasure in remembering her life before she
came here.
Precisely what is the nature of this devotion, its true motives,
and what are its obligations? Laura cannot say. She spends part of her
days in Xochimilco7, near by, teaching Indian children to say in English,
“The cat is on the mat.” When she appears in the classroom they
crowd8 about her with smiles on their wise, innocent, clay-colored9
faces, crying, “Good morning, my titcher!” in immaculate10 voices, and
they make of her desk a fresh garden of flowers every day.
During her leisure she goes to union11 meetings and listens to
busy important voices quarreling over tactics, methods, internal
politics. She visits the prisoners of her own political faith in their cells12,
where they entertain themselves with counting cockroaches13,
repenting of their indiscretions, composing their memoirs, writing out
1
presently in a short time, soon
gall Fr. bile
3 saddle girth a narrow piece of leather or cloth that is fastened around the middle
of a horse to keep the seat, or a load in place
4 homely simple, ordinary
5 primer a book that contains basic instructions
6 callous cold-hearted, insensitive, unkind
7 Xochimilco one of the sixteen boroughs within Mexican Federal District. It is
located within Mexico City
8 crowd to stand very close to sb so that they feel uncomfortable or nervous
9 clay-colored clay: type of heavy, sticky eath that becomes heard when it is baked
and is used to make things such as pots and bricks
10 immaculate extremely clean and tidy
11 union an organization of employees formed to bargain with the employer
12 cell a room for one or more prisoners in a prison or police station
13 cockroach a large brown insect with wings, that lives in houses, esp. where there is
dirt (Fr. Cafard)
2
manifestoes and plans for their comrades who are still walking about
free, hands in pockets, sniffing fresh air. Laura brings them food and
cigarettes and a little money, and she brings messages disguised in
equivocal1 phrases from the men outside who dare not set foot in the
prison for fear of disappearing into the cells kept empty for them. If
the prisoners confuse night and day, and complain, “Dear little Laura,
time doesn’t pass in this infernal hole, and I won’t know when it is time
to sleep unless I have a reminder,” she brings them their favorite
narcotics, and says in a tone that does not wound them with pity,
“Tonight will really be night for you,” and though her Spanish amuses
them, they find her comforting, useful. If they lose patience and all
faith, and curse the slowness of their friends in coming to their rescue
with money and influence, they trust her not to repeat everything, and
if she inquires, “Where do you think we can find money, or influence?”
they are certain to answer, “Well, there is Braggioni, why doesn’t he
do something?”
She smuggles letters from headquarters to men hiding from
firing squads2 in back streets in mildewed3 houses, where they sit in
tumbled4 beds and talk bitterly5 as if all Mexico were at their heels6,
when Laura knows positively they might appear at the band concert in
the Alameda7 on Sunday morning, and no one would notice them. But
Braggioni says, “Let them sweat a little. The next time they may be
careful. It is very restful to have them out of the way for a while.” She
is not afraid to knock on any door in any street after midnight, and
enter in the darkness, and say to one of these men who is really in
danger: “They will be looking for you — seriously — tomorrow
morning after six. Here is some money from Vicente. Go to Vera Cruz
and wait.”
She borrows money from the Roumanian agitator to give to
his bitter enemy the Polish agitator. The favor of Braggioni is their
disputed territory, and Braggioni holds the balance nicely, for he can
use them both. The Polish agitator talks love to her over café tables,
hoping to exploit what he believes is her secret sentimental preference
for him, and he gives her misinformation which he begs her to repeat
as the solemn truth to certain persons. The Roumanian is more adroit8.
He is generous with his money in all good causes, and lies to her with
an air of ingenuous9 candor10, as if he were her good friend and
confidant. She never repeats anything they may say. Braggioni never
1
equivocal not having one clear or definite meaning or intention
firing squad a group of soldier who are ordered to shoot and kill sb who is found
guilty of a crime
3 mildewed Fr. moisi
4 tumble to collapse, fall to pieces
5 bitterly in a way that shows feelings of sadness or anger
6 at sb’s heels following closely behind sb
7 Alameda public promenade bordered with trees (Norton)
8 adroit skilful and clever
9 ingenuous honest, innocent and willing to trust people
10 candor the quality of saying what you think openly and honestly, sincerity
2
asks questions. He has other ways to discover all that he wishes to
know about them.
Nobody touches her, but all praise her gray eyes, and the soft,
round under lip which promises gayety1, yet is always grave2, nearly
always firmly closed: and they cannot understand why she is in
Mexico. She walks back and forth on her errands, with puzzled
eyebrows, carrying her little folder of drawings and music and school
papers. No dancer dances more beautifully than Laura walks, and she
inspires some amusing, unexpected ardors3, which cause little gossip,
because nothing comes of them. A young captain who had been a
soldier in Zapata’s4 army attempted, during a horseback ride near
Cuernavaca5, to express his desire for her with the noble simplicity
befitting6 a rude7 folk-hero8: but gently, because he was gentle. This
gentleness was his defeat, for when he alighted9, and removed her
foot from the stirrup10, and essayed to draw her down into his arms,
her horse, ordinarily a tame one, shied11 fiercely, reared12 and
plunged13 away. The young hero’s horse careered14 blindly after his
stable-mate, and the hero did not return to the hotel until rather late
that evening. At breakfast he came to her table in full charro15 dress,
gray buckskin16 jacket and trousers with strings17 of silver buttons
down the leg, and he was in a humorous, careless mood. “May I sit
with you?” and “You are a wonderful rider. I was terrified that you
might be thrown and dragged18. I should never have forgiven myself.
But I cannot admire you enough for your riding!”
“I learned to ride in Arizona,” said Laura.
“If you will ride with me again this morning, I promise you a
horse that will not shy19 with you,” he said. But Laura remembered
that she must return to Mexico City at noon.
1
gaiety the quality of being or looking cheerful
grave very serious and important; giving you a reason to feel worried
3 ardor very strong feelings of enthusiasm or love
4 Zapata Emiliano Zapata (c. 1879-1919), Mexican peasant revolutionary general
whose movement, zapatismo, combined agrarian and Mexican Indian cultural
aspirations; one of the most significant figures in Mexico from 1910 to 1919, when
he was murdered (Norton)
5 Cuernavaca the capital and largest city of the state of Morelos in Mexico
6 befit to be suitable and good enough for sb/sth
7 rude sudden, unpleasant and unexpected
8 folk-hero a person that people in a particular place admire because of sth special
he or she has done
9 alight to dismount, get off
10 stirrup one of the metal rings that hang down on each side of a horse’s saddle (Fr.
Etrier)
11 shy if a horse shies, it makes a sudden movement away from sth because it is
frightened
12 rear to raise itself on its back legs, with the front leg in the air
13 plunge to move up and down suddenly and violently
14 career to move forward very quickly, esp. in an uncontrolled way
15 charro a peasant horseman of special status
16 buckskin soft leather made from the skin of deer or goats, used for making gloves,
bags, etc.
17 string series of people or things that come closely one after another
18 drag to pull, as against a resistance
19 shy to make a sudden movement, esp. from fear
2
Next morning the children made a celebration and spent their
playtime writing on the blackboard, “We lov ar ticher,” and with
tinted1 chalks2 they drew wreaths3 of flowers around the words. The
young hero wrote her a letter: “I am a very foolish, wasteful, impulsive
man. I should have first said I love you, and then you would not have
run away. But you shall see me again.” Laura thought, “I must send
him a box of colored crayons,” but she was trying to forgive herself for
having spurred4 her horse at the wrong moment.
A brown, shock-haired5 youth came and stood in her patio6
one night and sang like a lost soul for two hours, but Laura could think
of nothing to do about it. The moonlight spread a wash7 of gauzy8 silver
over the clear spaces of the garden, and the shadows were cobalt9
blue. The scarlet blossoms of the Judas tree were dull10 purple, and the
names of the colors repeated themselves automatically in her mind,
while she watched not the boy, but his shadow, fallen like a dark
garment across the fountain rim11, trailing12 in the water. Lupe came
silently and whispered expert counsel13 in her ear: “If you will throw
him one little flower, he will sing another song or two and go away.”
Laura threw the flower, and he sang a last song and went away with
the flower tucked14 in the band15 of his hat. Lupe said, “He is one of
the organizers of the Typographers16 Union, and before that he sold
corridos17 in the Merced market, and before that, he came from
Guanajuato18, where I was born. I would not trust any man, but I trust
least those from Guanajuato.”
She did not tell Laura that he would be back again the next
night, and the next, nor that he would follow her at a certain fixed
distance around the Merced market, through the Zócolo, up Francisco
I. Madero Avenue, and so along the Paseo de la Reforma to
1
tinted coloured
chalk a small stick of white or coloured substance like soft rock, used for writing or
drawing
3 wreath an arrangement of flowers and leaves, esp. in the shape of a circle
4 spur to encourage a horse to go faster, esp. by pushing the spurs on your boots into
its side
5 shock-haired having a lot of thick untidy hair
6 patio an open space with a stone floor next to a house, used for seating or eating
on in fine weather
7 wash a thin coat of gold, silver, etc. laid on something
8 gauzy made of thin threads of metal or plastic
9 cobalt a deep blue-green colour
10 dull not bright or shiny
11 rim the edge of sth in the shape of a circle
12 trail to hang down so as to drag along the ground
13 counsel an advice, esp. given by older people or experts
14 tuck to push, fold or turn the ends or edges of clothes, paper, etc. so that they are
held in place or look neat
15 band a thin flat strip or circle of any material that is put around things, for example
to hold them together or to make them stronger
16 typographer one who sets written material into type
17 corrido (Sp.) a popular folk song
18 Guanajuato the name of a state in Mexico and that state's capital city, as well as a
river in the area
2
Chapultepec Park, and into the Philosopher’s Footpath, still with that
flower withering1 in his hat, and an indivisible attention in his eyes.
Now Laura is accustomed to him, it means nothing except that
he is nineteen years old and is observing a convention with all
propriety, as though it were founded on a law of nature, which in the
end it might well prove to be. He is beginning to write poems which he
prints on a wooden press, and he leaves them stuck like handbills2 in
her door. She is pleasantly disturbed by the abstract, unhurried
watchfulness3 of his black eyes which will in time turn easily towards
another object. She tells herself that throwing the flower was a
mistake, for she is twenty-two years old and knows better; but she
refuses to regret it, and persuades herself that her negation of all
external events as they occur is a sign that she is gradually perfecting
herself in the stoicism she strives to cultivate against that disaster she
fears, though she cannot name it.
She is not at home in the world. Every day she teaches children
who remain strangers to her, though she loves their tender round
hands and their charming opportunist savagery. She knocks at
unfamiliar doors not knowing whether a friend or a stranger shall
answer, and even if a known face emerges from the sour4 gloom5 of
that unknown interior, still it is the face of a stranger. No matter what
this stranger says to her, nor what her message to him, the very cells6
of her flesh reject knowledge and kinship7 in one monotonous word.
No. No. No. She draws her strength from this one holy talismanic8
word which does not suffer her to be led into evil. Denying everything,
she may walk anywhere in safety, she looks at everything without
amazement.
No, repeats this firm unchanging voice of her blood; and she
looks at Braggioni without amazement. He is a great man, he wishes
to impress this simple girl who covers her great round breasts with
thick dark cloth, and who hides long, invaluably beautiful legs under a
heavy skirt. She is almost thin except for the incomprehensible fullness
of her breasts, like a nursing mother’s, and Braggioni, who considers
himself a judge of women, speculates again on the puzzle of her
notorious virginity, and takes the liberty of speech which she permits
without a sign of modesty, indeed, without any sort of sign, which is
disconcerting9.
“You think you are so cold, gringita! Wait and see. You will
surprise yourself some day! May I be there to advise you!” He
1
wither if a plant withers, it dries up and dies
handbill a small printed publicity sheet distributed by hand
3 watchfulness vigilant attentiveness
4 sour unfriendly, sullen
5 gloom almost total darkness
6 cell the smallest unit of living matter that can exist on its own
7 kinship likeness, closeness
8 talismanic > talisman an object that is thought to have magic powers and to bring
good luck
9 disconcerting perplexing and annoying
2
stretches his eyelids at her, and his ill-humored cat’s eyes waver1 in a
separate glance for the two points of light marking the opposite ends
of a smoothly2 drawn path between the swollen curve of her breasts.
He is not put off3 by that blue serge4, nor by her resolutely fixed gaze5.
There is all the time in the world. His cheeks are bellying6 with the wind
of song. “O girl with the dark eyes,” he sings, and reconsiders. “But
yours are not dark. I can change all that. O girl with the green eyes, you
have stolen my heart away!” then his mind wanders to the song, and
Laura feels the weight of his attention being shifted elsewhere. Singing
thus, he seems harmless, he is quite harmless, there is nothing to do
but sit patiently and say “No,” when the moment comes. She draws a
full breath, and her mind wanders also, but not far. She dares not
wander too far.
Not for nothing has Braggioni taken pains to be a good
revolutionist and a professional lover of humanity. He will never die of
it. He has the malice, the cleverness, the wickedness, the sharpness of
wit, the hardness of heart, stipulated7 for loving the world profitably.
He will never die of it. He will live to see himself kicked out from his
feeding trough8 by other hungry world-saviors. Traditionally he must
sing in spite of his life which drives him to bloodshed9, he tells Laura,
for his father was a Tuscany10 peasant who drifted11 to Yucatan12 and
married a Maya13 woman: a woman of race, an aristocrat. They gave
him the love and knowledge of music, thus: and under the rip14 of his
thumbnail15, the strings of the instrument complain like exposed
nerves.
Once he was called Delgadito16 by all the girls and married
women who ran after him; has was so scrawny17 all his bones showed
under his thin cotton clothing, and he could squeeze18 his emptiness
to the very backbone with his two hands. He was a poet and the
revolution was only a dream then; too many women loved him and
1
waver to move unsteadily
smoothly in an even way, without suddenly stopping and starting again
3 put off to disturb sb who is trying to give all their attention to sth that they are
doing
4 serge a type of strong cloth made of wool, used for making clothes
5 gaze a long steady look at sb/sth
6 belly to fill with air and become rounder in shape
7 stipulate to require
8 trough a long narrow open container, esp. for holding water of food for animals
9 bloodshed the killing or wounding of people, usually during fighting or a war
10 Tuscany a region of N-W central Italy
11 drift to go somewhere without a particular plan or purpose
12 Yucatan one of the 31 states of Mexico, located on the north of the Yucatán
Peninsula
13 Maya the Maya peoples constitute a diverse range of the Native American peoples
of southern Mexico and northern Central America
14 rip the act of rending or ripping or splitting something
15 thumbnail the nail of the short thick finger at the side of the hand, slightly apart
from the other four
16 Delgadito (Sp.) a nickname meaning “small lean boy”
17 scrawny thin, without much flesh on the bones
18 squeeze to press sth firmly, esp. with your fingers
2
sapped1 away his youth, and he could never find enough to eat
anywhere, anywhere! Now he is a leader of men, crafty2 men who
whisper in his ear, hungry men who wait for hours outside his office
for a word with him, emaciated3 men with wild faces who waylay4 him
at the street gate with a timid, “Comrade, let me tell you . . .” and they
blow the foul5 breath from their empty stomachs in his face.
He is always sympathetic. He gives them handfuls of small
coins from his own pocket, he promises them work, there will be
demonstrations, they must join the unions and attend the meetings,
above all they must be on the watch for spies. They are closer to him
than his own brothers, without them he can do nothing — until
tomorrow, comrade!
Until tomorrow. “They are stupid, they are lazy, they are
treacherous, they would cut my throat for nothing,” he says to Laura.
He has good food and abundant drink, he hires an automobile and
drives in the Paseo on Sunday morning, and enjoys plenty of sleep in a
soft bed beside a wife who dares not disturb him; and he sits
pampering6 his bones in easy billows7 of fat, singing to Laura, who
knows and thinks these things about him. When he was fifteen, he
tried to drown himself because he loved a girl, his first love, and she
laughed at him. “A thousand women have paid for that,” and his tight
little mouth turns down at the corners. Now he perfumes his hair with
Jockey Club, and confides to Laura: “One woman is really as good as
another for me, in the dark. I prefer them all.”
His wife organizes unions among the girls in the cigarette
factories, and walks in picket8 lines, and even speaks at meetings in the
evening. But she cannot be brought to acknowledge the benefits of
true liberty. “I tell her I must have my freedom, net9. She does not
understand my point of view.” Laura has heard this many times.
Braggioni scratches the guitar and meditates. “She is an instinctively
virtuous woman, pure gold, no doubt of that. If she were not, I should
lock her up, and she knows it.”
His wife, who works so hard for the good of the factory girls,
employs part of her leisure lying on the floor weeping because there
are so many women in the world, and only one husband for her, and
she never knows where nor when to look for him. He told her: “Unless
you can learn to cry when I am not here, I must go away for good.”
That day he went away and took a room at the Hotel Madrid.
1
sap to make sth/sb weaker; to destroy sth gradually
crafty clever at getting what you want, esp. by indirect or dishonest methods
3 emaciated thin and weak, usually because of illness or lack of food
4 waylay to stop sb who is going somewhere, esp. in order to talk to them or attack
them
5 foul dirty and smelling bad
6 pamper to overindulge, spoil, treat too kindly
7 billow a very large wave, a rolling mass
8 picket a person or group of people who stand outside the entrance to a building in
order to protest about sth, esp. in order to stop people from entering a factory, etc.
during a strike
9 net with nothing taken away from it
2
It is this month of separation for the sake of higher principles
that has been spoiled not only for Mrs. Braggioni, whose sense of
reality is beyond criticism, but for Laura, who feels herself bogged1 in
a nightmare. Tonight Laura envies Mrs. Braggioni, who is alone, and
free to weep as much as she pleases about a concrete wrong. Laura
has just come from a visit to the prison, and she is waiting for
tomorrow with a bitter anxiety as if tomorrow may not come, but time
may be caught immovably in this hour, with herself transfixed2,
Braggioni singing on forever, and Eugenio’s body not yet discovered by
the guard.
Braggioni says: “Are you going to sleep?” Almost before she
can shake her head, he begins telling her about the May-day3
disturbances coming on in Morelia, for the Catholics hold a festival in
honor of the Blessed Virgin, and the Socialists celebrate their martyrs
on that day. “There will be two independent processions, starting from
either end of town, and they will march until they meet, and the rest
depends . . .” He asks her to oil and load4 his pistols. Standing up, he
unbuckles5 his ammunition belt, and spreads it laden6 across her
knees. Laura sits with the shells7 slipping through the cleaning cloth
dipped in oil, and he says again he cannot understand why she works
so hard for the revolutionary idea unless she loves some man who is
in it. “Are you not in love with someone?” “No,” says Laura. “And no
one is in love with you?” “No.” “Then it is your own fault. No woman
need go begging. Why, what is the matter with you? The legless beggar
woman in the Alameda has a perfectly faithful lover. Did you know
that?”
Laura peers down8 the pistol barrel9 and says nothing, but a
long, slow faintness rises and subsides10 in her; Braggioni curves his
swollen fingers around the throat of the guitar and softly smothers11
the music out of it, and when she hears him again he seems to have
forgotten her, and is speaking in the hypnotic voice he uses when
talking in small rooms to a listening, close-gathered crowd. Some day
this world, now seemingly so composed and eternal, to the edges of
every sea shall be merely a tangle12 of gaping trenches13, of crashing
walls and broken bodies. Everything must be torn from its accustomed
1
bog stuck as if in the mud or a morass
transfix to make sb unable to move because they are afraid, surprised, etc.
3 May-day 1st May, the International Workers’ Day
4 load to put sth in a weapon so that it can be used
5 unbuckle to undo the buckle of a belt, shoe, etc.
6 laden full of sth, especially sth unpleasant
7 shell a metal case filled with explosive, to be fired from a large gun
8 peer down to look very carefully at sth, esp. because you are having difficulty
seeing it
9 barrel the part of a gun like a tube through which the bullets are fired
10 subside to become calmer and quieter
11 smother to prevent sth from developing or being expressed
12 tangle (inf) a disagreement or fight
13 trench a long deep hole dug in the ground in which soldiers can be protected from
enemy attacks
2
place where it has rotted for centuries, hurled1 skyward2 and
distributed, cast3 down again clean as rain, without separate identity.
Nothing shall survive that the stiffened4 hands of poverty have created
for the rich and no one shall be left alive except the elect5 spirits
destined to procreate a new world cleansed of cruelty and injustice,
ruled by benevolent anarchy: “Pistols are good, I love them, cannon
are even better, but in the end I pin my faith6 to good dynamite,” he
concludes, and strokes7 the pistol lying in her hands. “Once I dreamed
of destroying this city, in case it offered resistance to General Ortíz,
but it fell into his hands like an overripe8 pear.”
He is made restless by his own words, rises and stands waiting.
Laura holds up the belt to him: “Put that on, and go kill somebody in
Morelia, and you will be happier,” she says softly. The presence of
death in the room makes her bold9. “Today, I found Eugenio going into
a stupor10. He refused to allow me to call the prison doctor. He had
taken all the tablets I brought him yesterday. He said he took them
because he was bored.”
“He is a fool, and his death is his own business,” says Braggioni,
fastening his belt carefully.
“I told him if he had waited only a little while longer, you would
have got him set free,” says Laura. “He said he did not want to wait.”
“He is a fool and we are well rid of him,” says Braggioni,
reaching for his hat.
He goes away. Laura knows his mood has changed, she will not
see him any more for a while. He will send word when he needs her to
go on errands into strange streets, to speak to the strange faces that
will appear, like clay11 masks with the power of human speech, to
mutter their thanks to Braggioni for his help. Now she is free, and she
thinks, I must run while there is time. But she does not go.
Braggioni enters his own house where for a month his wife has
spent many hours every night weeping and tangling12 her hair upon
her pillow. She is weeping now, and she weeps more at the sight of
him, the cause of all her sorrows. He looks about the room. Nothing is
changed, the smells are good and familiar, he is well acquainted with
the woman who comes toward him with no reproach except grief on
1
hurl to throw sth/sb violently in a particular direction
skyward towards the sky, up into the sky
3 cast to throw sb/sth somewhere, esp. using force
4 stiffened to make yourself or part of your body firm, straight and still, esp. because
you are angry or frightened
5 elect people who have been chosen for a special higher purpose
6 pin your faith on sb/sth to rely on sb/sth completely for success or help
7 stroke to rub with a gentle movement
8 overripe fruit and vegetables that are past the point of being ready to eat and are
too soft
9 bold brave and confident; not afraid to say what you feel or to take risks
10 stupor a state in which you are unable to think, hear, etc. clearly, esp. because you
have drunk too much alcohol, taken drugs or had a shock
11 clay a type of heavy, sticky earth that becomes hard when it is baked and is used
to make things such as pots and bricks
12 tangle to twist sth into an untidy mass; to become twisted in this way
2
her face. He says to her tenderly: “You are so good, please don’t cry
any more, you dear good creature.” She says, “Are you tired, my angel?
Sit here and I will wash your feet.” She brings a bowl of water, and
kneeling, unlaces1 his shoes, and when from her knees she raises her
sad eyes under her blackened lids2, he is sorry for everything, and
bursts into tears. “Ah, yes, I am hungry, I am tired, let us eat something
together,” he says, between sobs. His wife leans her head on his arm
and says, “Forgive me!” and this time he is refreshed by the solemn,
endless rain of her tears.
Laura takes off her serge dress and puts on a white linen
nightgown and goes to bed. She turns her head a little to one side, and
lying still, reminds herself that it is time to sleep. Numbers tick in her
brain like little clocks, soundless doors close of themselves around her.
If you would sleep, you must not remember anything, the children will
say tomorrow, good morning, my teacher, the poor prisoners who
come every day bringing flowers to their jailor3. 1-2-3-4-5 — it is
monstrous to confuse love with revolution, night with day, life with
death — ah, Eugenio!
The tolling4 of the midnight bell is a signal, but what does it
mean? Get up, Laura, and follow me: come out of your sleep, out of
your bed, out of this strange house. What are you doing in this house?
Without a word, without fear she rose and reached for Eugenio’s hand,
but he eluded her with a sharp, sly smile and drifted away. This is not
all, you shall see — Murderer, he said, follow me, I will show you a new
country, but it is far away and we must hurry. No, said Laura, not unless
you take my hand, no; and she clung first to the stair rail5, and then to
the topmost6 branch of the Judas tree that bent down slowly and set
her upon the earth, and then to the rocky ledge7 of a cliff, and then to
the jagged8 wave of a sea that was not water but a desert of crumbling
stone. Where are you taking me, she asked in wonder but without fear.
To death, and it is a long way off, and we must hurry, said Eugenio. No,
said Laura, not unless you take my hand. Then eat these flowers, poor
prisoner, said Eugenio in a voice of pity, take and eat: and from the
Judas tree he stripped9 the warm bleeding flowers, and held them to
her lips. She saw that his hand was fleshless, a cluster10 of small white
petrified11 branches, and his eye sockets were without light, but she
ate the flowers greedily for they satisfied both hunger and thirst.
1
unlace to undo the laces of shoes, clothes, etc.
lid eyelid
3 jailor a person charged of a prison and the prisoners in it
4 toll when a bell tolls or sb tolls it, it is rung slowly many times, esp. as a sign that sb
has died
5 stair rail a wooden or metal bar placed around sth as a barrier or to provide
support
6 topmost highest
7 ledge the flat surface of rock
8 jagged having a rough, uneven edge, often with sharp points
9 strip to remove a layer from sth, esp. so that it is completely exposed
10 cluster a group of things of the same type that grow or appear close together
11 petrify to change or to make sth change into a substance like stone
2
Murderer! said Eugenio, and Cannibal1! This is my body and my blood.
Laura cried No! and at the sound of her own voice, she awoke
trembling, and was afraid to sleep again.
1
cannibal a person who eats human flesh
Wilson, Barbara “Mi Novelista” (1998)
Everyone wants to be a writer, I’ve found. Everyone thinks it couldn’t
be that hard. If you spend a lot of time around writers, as I do, the idea
becomes even more plausible. They’re not really that smart, some of
them. They’re not really that talented, some of them. All that
separates us from them is a book, and sometimes not even that.
I’m a translator, from Spanish to English, which means that
although I don’t often get credit for, say, the last Gloria de los Angeles
novel you picked up, the words in the novel are in fact my words. My
English words. My choices. I wrote crimson, when I could have written
blood red. In many cases, I’ll tell you modestly, I’ve improved the
words I was given. Texts are fluid. Words can be substituted, each
brick of the house removed and replaced. Afterwards, is it still the
same house? The original author thinks so. But I know differently.
If what a writer writes is words, then I am a writer. I have
books full of my words. But I am not a writer. Not a real one. I used to
think I might be. I used to mull over1 how I might start, used to wonder
how to cross the bridge from nobody to novelist. What separated me
from them?
Plot and character? When you’ve translated as many books as
I have, it’s not hard to look at the creakiness2 of some story lines, the
thinness of most characterizations and to think, “I could do better than
that. At least I couldn’t do worse.” I didn’t have much to say as a writer,
but again, neither do lots of authors with books on the bestseller list.
They have intriguing lives, or beautiful faces, or strange little
gimmicks3, but very few interesting ideas. I’d be in good company.
If I could only get started, get my foot in the door. Because I
knew, from spending years in the publishing world, that it’s easier to
write badly after you’ve made a name for yourself. I didn’t want to
demoralize myself by writing a novel under my own name and then
having it rejected. Writers, along with other artists, go through that
humiliation all the time. But I didn’t want to bother, if that was to be
the outcome. I only wanted the good parts: Fame, money, adulation.
And so, innocently, and in the spirit of good fun, I came up one
day with the idea of pretending to translate the work of a Latin
American woman writer who did not exist.
Text based on: Reilly, Cassandra. 1998. The Death of a Much-Travelled Woman and
Other Adventures with Cassandra Reilly. Chicago: Third Side Press.
Many thanks are due to Sophie Trigaux, whose bachelor paper in English literature
(UNamur, 2011-2012) provided the basis for the present edition.
1
mull over to spend time thinking carefully about a plan or a proposal
creakiness weakness, shakiness, poor structure
3 gimmick an unusual trick or unnecessary device that is intended to attract
attention or to persuade people to buy something
2
Wilson “Mi Novelista” (2)
I chose that continent because I know the literary landscape
of South America better than I know that of Spain. The literary landscape I know best is that of Uruguay, but for that reason alone I knew
I couldn’t make my author Uruguayan. For society outside Montevideo is composed mainly of cattle1 ranchers, and society inside
Montevideo is composed entirely of people who know each other. I
couldn’t make my author someone in exile either, because those
writers are even more visible, and Luisa Montiflores, the brilliant
egomaniac whose work I had translated for years, knew them all.
So I decided my novelist, mi novelista, must come straight
from the teeming2 urban jungle of Buenos Aires. I hadn’t been to the
capital of Argentina in some time, but that didn’t worry me as I didn’t
actually plan to set my novel in any place as recognizable as Buenos
Aires. I’d read my Italo Calvino3 and Borges4. I’d translated my Luisa
Montiflores. I too could create an imaginary city bearing only a tangential relationship to one described in a guidebook.
I called my novelist Elvira Montalban, and one rainy evening
in London (where finances had forced me once again to depend on the
hospitality of Nicola Gibbons. If you could call a woman hospitable
who no longer allowed dairy products in her refrigerator and who
practiced the bassoon day and night), I set to work.
My tone, from the beginning, was an intriguing combination
of magic realism and some science fiction stories I’d read as an
adolescent in Kalamazoo, Michigan. There were no aliens and no
spaceships, but the time was the future and the landscape, though not
post-nuclear, had been altered through climatic change. A soft blanket
of snow lay over everything that had once been equatorial and, in the
far north, the glaciers had begun again their slow advance.
Social relationships, too, had undergone a change (unaccounted-for5, but that’s what’s useful about speculative fiction). There
was no gender, for instance, and no hierarchy. This was less utopian
on my part than the simple desire to see what was left, to see what
still divided people. My society seemed to divide between those who
were naturally melancholic, which was the preferred state, and those
whose cheerful, positive temperaments had to be toned down and
reconfigured. Through seminars on the history of sadness, through
forced incarcerations in the melancholic institutions, and in some
desperate cases, through constant medication or genetic alteration.
The title of the book was, in its English translation, The Academy of
Melancholy, and it contained the intertwined stories of a group of
young people and their professors at one of the great schools for
sadness in the country.
When I was finished with the first two chapters, I sent them to
1
cattle animals such as cows, mainly kept meat or milk
teem to be full of or swarming with
3 Italo Calvino (1923-1985) an Italian journalist and writer of short stories and novels
4 Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) Argentine poet, short-story writer, and essayist
5 unaccounted-for not explained
2
an editor at the small, rather snooty1 London house of Farquharson
and Pendergast. I could have tried the larger house that published all
Gloria de Los Angeles’s bestsellers, where my friend Simon was an
editor. But I was still a bit nervous. I feared that Simon would see
through me. Farquharson and Pendergast were very literary, very
intellectual, and most important, very well-off2.
Jane Farquharson rang only a few days later. She told me she found
the “atmosphere” of The Academy of Melancholy, the novel I had
supposedly translated, rather promising and she asked to see more.
She was only critical of the actual translation, which, she said kindly,
still read a little like the original Spanish. She wanted Pendergast to
take a look, and perhaps another consultant who could read the
original and compare them.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I said, as crisply3 as I could.
“Why not? It’s been published in Argentina, hasn’t it? Or Spain?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you must have her manuscript.”
“She’s a very mistrustful person,” I invented. “Actually, completely paranoid. She’s so afraid of someone stealing her ideas that
she only has the one manuscript. She won’t let it out of her sight. I
have to sit in her study to translate it. She watches me like a hawk.”
There was a pause while Jane took this in, but the secrecy
seemed to excite her. I sensed this in her voice when she said, “But
where does she live? Here in London?”
“Of course not,” I said. “She’s in … ”
“Buenos Aires?”
“No, no,” I paused desperately. “She’s in … Iceland. Iceland,” I
repeated more firmly. “That’s where all the snow comes in.”
“Iceland? How did she get to Iceland? What’s she doing there?”
“She’s in exile. She’s underground. She’s incognito. She’s … I
don’t know much more than you do,” I admitted. “I told you, she’s
paranoid.”
“But you have met her?” Jane’s voice begged for reassurance.
“Of course. Someone passed her name on to me, and I
followed it up. Knocked on her door in Reykjavík and persuaded her to
let me in. She left Argentina years ago because of the military. Married
an Icelandic man, changed her name. Montalban is a pen name, of
course.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about her.”
“These are the barest facts! I don’t know anything important.
It’s a miracle I even got her to show me her work.”
1
snooty snobbish
well-off wealthy
3 crisply briskly decisive and matter-of-fact, without hesitation or unnecessary detail
2
“Well … ”
“If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I usually work with Simon
Gull-Smyth at Penguin. I thought I’d try you first because of your
reputation for literary discoveries, but … ”
She wanted badly to believe me, and so she did. With
Pendergast’s agreement we soon had two contracts, one for me and
one for Elvira Montalban, aka1 Elvira Antoniosdóttir. The delivery date
for the translation was set for March 1, so it could make a fall
publication2 and I received a gratifyingly large advance, the majority of
which I promised to pass on to Elvira when I saw her.
“You’ll be going to Iceland of course,” said Jane Farquharson.
“Do give me your address and so on there, so we can stay in touch.”
And here I had thought that I was going to be spending the
first part of the year in my cozy attic room in Nicola’s house. I had
already spent some of the advance on buying a comfortable new chair
and an elegant desk that I’d been admiring for some time in an antique
shop.
“You’re going where?” Nicola demanded when I came home
that day and began pulling out suitcases in a fit of irritation.
“Bloody Iceland!”
“But Cassandra, it’s January.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
I’d been to Iceland once, some years ago, in the summer, and
it hadn’t been too warm and cheerful then either. I called my one
acquaintance in Reykjavík, Birgit Birgitsdóttir, the volcano expert, and
found that she was just heading off3 for an island in the South Pacific,
where something was rumored to be about to blow, rumor being the
operative word4 for getting her out of Iceland during the darkest time
of the year.
Birgit was happy to lend me her flat for a month or so, and
didn’t ask many questions. My flurried5 explanation about needing
complete and utter solitude to finish a project may not have sounded
too convincing, but my tone of desperation did.
“I’m just happy you caught me before my flight to Sydney,”
she said. “Please make yourself at home. There is plenty of whale meat
in the freezer.”
It was a dark January day when I closed the door on my cozy
room, took the tube to Heathrow, and boarded a flight to Reykjavík.
The interior of Iceland is closed to traffic and most travel in winter.
1
aka also known as
fall publication a publication that takes place in autumn
3 head off to leave
4 the operative word the word having the most relevance or significance in a phrase
or sentence
5 flurried vague
2
What’s left, what’s open, is the perimeter of the island, which may be
imagined as the white rim of frost around a frozen daiquiri1. Iceland is
as large as England, but the population is only 250,000, and more than
half of those people live in Reykjavík, which tends to give the city a
huddled2 feeling.
If I had to be in Iceland in January, I was glad enough to be
huddled. I had no desire to travel to the interior.
Of course I went through my advance from Farquharson and
Pendergast very quickly. Iceland is the most expensive place in
Scandinavia, which is not known for its budget travel. The only cheap
thing in Reykjavík is the hot water, which comes from geothermal
energy. There is so much hot water, in fact, that when you turn on the
tap, you have to wait for the water to get cold.
What did I spend money on? I’m not really sure. I had Birgit
Birgitsdóttir’s little flat and a whole load of whale meat in the freezer,
and hot water whenever I felt like it. Still, it cost me far more to stay in
Reykjavík for a month working on my supposed translation than it
would have cost me to live in London for six months while pretending
to be in Reykjavík.
The idea of making the book about melancholy was a good
one, for the long northern nights and the extreme cold acted to give
my book a strong quality of gloom that it had not possessed when I
had blithely3 begun it back in London the previous fall. At that point,
melancholy had been more a literary concept than a state of mind, or
actual climatic condition.
In reality, the act of showing two chapters to Jane Farquharson
had been an act of bravado4. As a translator I’d been accustomed to
working with a text, in either manuscript or book form. Now every
morning that January in Reykjavík I woke up to a blank page and
wondered how to fill it.
I had models certainly, especially the two women writers from
South America I’d been translating for years. I could pretend I was the
famous magic realist Gloria de los Angeles, whose erotic scenes and
little dramas of arrivals and departures often substituted for any real
narrative development. I also had the Uruguayan Luisa Montiflores as
an example. Her imagination was metaphoric, not anecdotal. Images
piled on images. Similes begetting5 similes. Irony, puns6, repetitions,
and contradictions. Asides to the reader. Asides to herself.
Connections that twisted through the text like colored wires in a circuit
board. Her stories looked a jumble7 until you began to unpick the blue
wires from the red. Many of her sentences had cost me an hour or two
1
daiquiri a cocktail containing rum and lime juice
huddle to crowd together, nestle closely
3 blithely happily, joyfully
4 bravado a confident way of behaving that is intended to impress people,
sometimes as a way of hiding a lack of confidence
5 beget to give rise to, to bring about
6 pun a play on words
7 jumble an untidy collection or pile of things
2
to rewrite.
But that’s what I had always loved about translation: to touch
words and tangle with1 them. To get closer and closer to what I felt
was the meaning. I was sensitive to writers’ styles. I had an ability to
read the mood of a text and to reproduce it. I was able to write, to
mimic many styles, from academic and elevated to slangy and streetwise. I could pick up the feeling of a style. The meaning I struggled over
as I translated had nothing to do with the other half of the writer’s art,
with shaping or transforming reality. My struggle with meaning was
definitional, atmospheric. The meaning had to do with words. It never
had to do with my life, my thoughts, my imagination.
Thus, when I began to supposedly translate, which meant to
actually write The Academy of Melancholy, it was impossible for me to
imagine the stories coming out of my life. They could only come out of
my imagination. They could only come if I imagined myself to be Elvira
Montalban writing her stories in Spanish.
Each morning I would take my cup of very black coffee to the table by
the window overlooking a concrete modern apartment building, and I
would begin to write in Spanish. Occasionally I would get up, muttering2
in Spanish, and walk around the room, gesturing and acting out
emotions. I wrote by hand, in blue ink on white paper. I pulled my hair
back in a bun and wore a dressing gown3 with shabby silk pajamas
underneath. I did this until around noon.
Then I took a long, bewildered walk in the dim, street-lighted,
often snowy city of Reykjavík, never quite knowing where I would end up.
Sometimes I found myself walking around and around the Torn, the
frozen lake in the center. Sometimes I wandered into the Museum of
Natural History. I went up and down the pedestrian street looking at
Icelandic sweaters. Sometimes I discovered new neighborhoods, a hilly
road of bright red and yellow wooden houses. I pretended – or truly felt
– that I had been dropped into this winter dark city by accident. I either
pretended or saw that the faces around me were blank4 with misery,
colorless and bleak. Onto them I projected a regimented sadness.
Sometimes I stopped for coffee or at a restaurant for a midday
meal of potatoes and fish. Sometimes I bought cheese and bread to
bring home. When people spoke to me in Icelandic, I sometimes
answered in Spanish, though we could have easily spoken English. I
purposefully learned little of the language there, and yet the sound of
it, ancient and melodic, with occasional sighs and many pauses,
filtered in through the two other languages I was working with daily,
and added something to the rhythm of what I was writing. I knew that
1
tangle with to fight with
mutter to say something in a low or barely audible voice
3 dressing gown a long loose robe, typically worn after getting out of bed or bathing
4 blank showing no feeling, understanding or interest
2
Icelandic, still spoken and written as it was during the time of the
medieval sagas1, kept itself pure by limiting the number of loan words
and taking old Icelandic words and putting them together in some new
way.
Thus computer had become, in Icelandic, “numbers-prophetess.”
At two or three, when the light was already fading from the
sky, turning the snowy streets a heartbreaking gray-blue, I would
begin work again, this time in jeans and a sweater, with my frizzy2 hair
every which way, a plate of sandwiches nearby, and my laptop
computer screen the same dull blue as the snow.
I looked at what I had written with my translator’s eye and
understood what Elvira had meant to say, if only she could express
herself better, if only she had the wealth of the English language at her
disposal. I rearranged her syntax and hunted down the meaning of her
sentences. I lengthened them and broke them up. I never changed a
word she wrote, and yet I changed everything. I worked long into the
evening, and lived in her world and shared her bed, and woke up and
began the whole process again.
I had no friends, nor did I make any. (And I haven’t heard from
Birgit Birgitsdóttir since, though I did leave her plenty of whale meat.)
My social life was Elvira, and sometimes I chatted with her in Spanish.
Once a neighbor who had a condominium3 in Torremolinos4 asked me
whom I was talking Spanish with in Birgit’s flat.
“Elvira Montalban,” I said promptly. “You know, the
Argentinean novelist?”
“Yes, I think I’ve heard of her,” he said, impressed by my
conviction.
But someone else in the building must have told him that I was
living there on my own, because the next time I saw him, he avoided
me.
Occasionally, I would go to lectures at the Nordic House. One
evening I saw that an American researcher would be reporting in
English on a study he’d done on S.A.D. – Seasonal Affective Disorder. I
went, as usual, in a state of some dishevelment5. When I stood up at
the end to ask my question, I noticed that my voice was rusty6 with
disuse, and also, that I had a Spanish accent.
“Why do you start from the assumption that S.A.D. is bad?” I
demanded. “In some cultures, being depressed is considered the norm
and the good.”
“What cultures are these?” the researcher asked with interest,
but then someone explained to him that I was just some crazy South
American woman, and he went on to the next question.
1
saga a medieval prose narrative in Old Icelandic
frizzy formed of mass of small, tight curls or tufts
3 condominium each of the individual apartments or houses in a building
4 Torremolinos a municipality on the Costa del Sol of the Mediterranean, in the
province of Málaga in the autonomous region of Andalusia in southern Spain
5 dishevelment untidiness, disorder
6 rusty croaking
2
I stared at my nailbitten fingers in surprised shock.
I had become Elvira Montalban.
In February, I returned to London and to Nicola’s house, and turned
the completed manuscript in to Farquharson and Pendergast.
Although Jane still complained that the translation read a bit
awkwardly in places, she was generally quite impressed with the story
– and even more with the mystery of the whole thing. She had me out
to dinner at a little place in Soho and tried to pump me for more
information about Elvira, but I kept my head. I didn’t even respond to
Jane’s rather too-friendly embrace at the end of the evening. She was
the sort of well-bred English girl I simply couldn’t feel comfortable
around. Nicola knew her from some charity work and said she was
horribly snobbish.
Besides, there was Pendergast, and Nicola said she was even
worse.
The Academy of Melancholy appeared that autumn and was
immediately hailed1 as a work of great gravity and importance.
“A Metaphorical Descent Into the Abyss of Argentinean
Politics,” said The Guardian. “A beautiful and terrifying evocation of
terror and exile,” wrote the Times reviewer. “The author [cribbing2
here from the publicity materials], resident in one of the Northern
countries, splashes the colors of the tropics across the frozen wastes.”
“Chilling,” said the Telegraph. (A partial quote.) And, my favorite,
“Brilliantly translated by Cassandra Reilly.” Farquharson and
Pendergast had gotten a friend of theirs to blurb3 it. “The most
interesting book [besides my own] I have read in the last ten years,”
wrote Gillian Winterbottom. High praise indeed.
I knew that I would be hearing from Luisa. And I did.
“Who is this Elvira Montalban?” she wrote, from her residency
at the University of Iowa. “What does it mean, ‘resident of a Northern
country’? I have never heard of her. Someone here read it and says we
have a similar style. I don’t think so at all. Who publishes her in Spain
or Argentina? What is the Spanish name of this book and where can I
get a copy?”
After the reviews, invitations to appear on panels and to
attend conferences began to pour in for Elvira. The book was published
in America, where it made an even greater stir4. More offers poured
1
hail to acclaim enthusiastically as being a specified thing
crib to copy illicitly or without acknowledgement
3 blurb to write a very favourable short description of a book to be printed on its
dustcover to attract buyers
4 stir commotion
2
in, and more hysterical letters from Luisa, demanding to know I was
not abandoning her for this new writer. Jane referred all requests for
interviews and appearances to me, and I referred them, with great
regret, to the trash receptacle.
Elvira’s fame would plummet1 like a stone if it were revealed
that she was really an Irish-Catholic girl from Kalamazoo, Michigan.
About nine or ten months after The Academy of Melancholy first
appeared in England, Jane called me. I had been in and out of London,
travelling to see friends and pick up work of course, but also to avoid
Luisa, who had made two trips to England specifically to track me
down.
“I asked you repeatedly about the rights situation, Cassandra,”
Jane fumed. “And you said she didn’t want to be published in Spain or
Argentina … ”
“That’s absolutely true,” I said, prepared to defend my
position again. “She’s writing under a pen name and she’s afraid of
repercussions.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that the book has just
been published in Madrid?”
“Madrid? Impossible!” I sputtered2. “Completely impossible. Elvira
doesn’t … I mean, she could never, I mean, she would never allow …”
“Elvira not only allowed it,” Jane snapped3. “She’s promoting it like
crazy. She’s not only alive and well, but she’s not living in Reykjavík.
She’s living in Madrid. And her face is all over the literary pages of
Spain’s newspapers. It’s a face that, I’m sure I don’t have to remind
you, you claimed she refused to have photographed.”
“Face? Photograph? It must be a joke. I told you, she’s
reclusive and practically certifiable4.”
“Don’t toy with me, Cassandra.” And Jane rang off.
A short time later, a messenger arrived at my door with an envelope
from Jane. It contained a batch5 of clippings from the Spanish newspapers. The face, long, narrow, with heavily made-up eyes, looked
completely unfamiliar. I raced through the reviews and interviews,
looking for some clue.
“I always wanted to write,” she said in one. “But I never
believed that my experiences in Iceland would be any use to me. I
1
plummet to decrease rapidly in value or amount
sputter to speak in a series of incoherent bursts as a result of indignation or some
other strong emotion
3 snap to say something quickly and irritably to someone
4 certifiable mad, crazy
5 batch a number of things regarded as a group or set
2
thought that to write I would have to write directly about the situation
in Buenos Aires, and that I thought I could never do.”
“What changed your mind?” the reporter asked.
“A conversation I had with a stranger some years ago in a
cafe,” said the false Elvira. “She seemed so fascinated in my descripttions of the snow and the great sadness of that time in my life, that I
tried to see what I could make of it.”
The liar, the worse-than-plagiarizer, the thief.
She wasn’t Elvira Montalban. She was Maria Escobar. I
remembered her now.
It had been a chance encounter in a cafe in Paris some years ago. An
intriguing but not particularly attractive woman, wearing, although it
was spring and getting warmer, a half-length jacket. A jacket of rather
soiled1 sheepskin. When she took it off, her dress was surprisingly chic,
but also rather soiled, with permanent stains2 under the arms. She was
between forty and fifty, with dyed black hair in a heavy bun, no
earrings or other jewelry. She sat at a table outdoors that afternoon,
sheltered from the wind. A familiar place. The waiter seemed to know
her, but not to like her particularly. Once or twice when she spoke to
him, he ignored her for the second it took to let her know she was
unimportant to him, and then, “Oui, Madame?” And this, too, seemed
familiar. She was not insulted. She seemed to expect it. A foreigner in
some way, yet her French was excellent.
She took out a portfolio of papers, and two or three small
dictionaries, and began to work. I understood immediately. She was a
translator. Back and forth her eyes scanned, and her writing was
rhythmic and assured. Occasionally she looked up a word, but for the
most part it seemed routine work, and not particularly engaging.
Eventually I struck up a conversation with her, in French that
quickly turned to Spanish, that was restrained3 at first, and then more
voluble. I had the sense she had not talked with anyone for a long time,
and certainly not about her life. She was from Argentina, had spent a
time in prison there and had gotten out with the help of Amnesty
International, which had sent her to Denmark. There she had married
an Icelandic businessman who had taken her back to his country. She
didn’t live in Reykjavík any longer. They had divorced; for some years
she had lived in Paris. She had some work that was fairly unsatisfying
in a multinational corporation translating back and forth from Spanish
to English to French. Documents of some sort. I remember how her
long fingers, with their unkempt4 nails, fiddled5 nervously with the
1
soil to make dirty
stain a colored patch or dirty mark that is difficult to remove
3 restrained characterized by reserve or moderation
4 unkempt having an untidy appearance
5 fiddle to touch or fidget with something in a restless or nervous way
2
papers. Several times she told me that she had a deadline the next day.
And yet she made no move to leave.
Nor did I. The waiter ignored us. We let our conversation
1
roam . I listened a great deal, watched her face. Her lipstick was an
old-fashioned shade2 of burgundy3 and had flaked dryly at the corners
of her mouth. She had a faint mustache. She seemed a woman with
her life behind her. “I wanted so much more for myself once,” I
remember her telling me, and the words floated up in the spring
evening air, for twilight had supplanted afternoon.
“What did you want?”
“To write,” she said.
“Everybody wants to be a writer,” I said. “I’ve often thought of
it myself, being a translator.”
“But I really wanted it,” she told me.
We kissed when we parted and promised to keep in touch, but
I was on my way from Paris to Mozambique to visit a friend, and I lost
her card almost immediately.
I had not thought of her again, until I saw her photograph in
the newspaper.
The cheek of it. Those stories she told me that day long ago
were nothing like what I’d written. Or were they? In truth, I had
forgotten the substance of what she’d told me. I only remembered the
cafe, the waiter, the scent of spring, the way she tapped the papers
under her fingers.
But she wasn’t going to get away with this. Jane would make
sure I never worked as a translator again in England or America, if I
didn’t get a handle on this and fast.
I called my local bucket shop4 and got a flight that same evening for Madrid.
Life in Spain, and especially Madrid, doesn’t really get going until
around midnight, so even though it was after ten when my friends
Sandra and Paloma met me at the airport, they told the taxi driver to
head into the center, to the Puerto del Sol. First, for old times’ sake,
we did the rounds of half a dozen bars. In some we had a pincho, a
mouthful, and in others a ración, a plateful. Squid, octopus, shrimp –
all fine with me, though I drew the line at5 tripe and recognizable parts
of pigs. We drank a little red wine at each place and then moved on.
Eventually we had dinner, and afterward joined the throngs6 of
Madrileños, jamming7 the sidewalk cafes and narrow streets. It was a
1
roam to drift along, without dwelling on anything in particular
shade a slight degree of difference between colors
3 burgundy a deep red color like that of burgundy wine
4 bucket shop a travel agency
5 draw the line at to set a limit on what one is willing to do or accept
6 throng a large, densely packed crowd of people
7 jam to crowd onto (an area) so as to block it
2
May night, warm but not too hot, and it seemed perfectly normal to
be wandering around a large city at three a.m. without a fear in the
world. We finished up the evening with a Guinness at an Irish bar
Sandra and Paloma had recently discovered.
At four we took a taxi to their modern new apartment building
far into the suburbs. Sandra and Paloma had come up in the world.
When I first knew them, Sandra was on leave from the University of
York, writing her dissertation on Women in Nineteenth-century
Madrid, and teaching an English class at the university; and Paloma
was a struggling scriptwriter. Now Sandra was a professor here and
Paloma worked on a hugely successful television show called ¿Quién
sabe dónde? or Who Knows Where?
“It’s just a missing person show,” Sandra explained, as Paloma
popped a tape of a recent show in the VCR1, “but somehow it’s tapped
into the national psyche. Everybody watches it religiously.”
“I write the scripts,” said Paloma. “I have a lot of fun. Of course
it’s all supposed to be completely true.”
The video showed a distraught2 mother on the phone to her
daughter, pleading with her to come home. Strangely enough, a film
crew seemed to be right in the mother’s pink-and-blue bedroom with
her, as well as in the disco where her daughter was shouting, “I hate
you, I’ll never come home!” into the receiver.
¿Quién sabe dónde? reminded me of Maria Escobar, the word
thief. Who knew where she was, indeed? I’d told Sandra and Paloma I
was in Madrid to meet with the author of La academia de la
melancholía, but I hadn’t told them the whole story.
“Yes, that book is very well-known,” they told me. “The author
seemed to come out of nowhere and is a great success. We have a
copy if you’d like to read it.”
“Oh just leave it around,” I said casually. But as soon as they
were in bed, I grabbed it and spent the rest of the night reading La
academia de la melancholía. The same plot, the same characters, the
same mood. Everything the same. Except the words. The Spanish was
excellent, beautiful, much better than my original Spanish had been,
the Spanish I’d written down those snowy mornings well over a year
ago in Reykjavík. How could that be? This was a translation of my work
from English. But it read as though it was the original Spanish.
Saturday night we went out on the town again, and Sunday we
drove to a small village outside the city to visit Paloma’s mother.
Paloma might be a high-rolling3, chain-smoking TV executive during
the week, but on Sundays she wore a plain dress and flat shoes and
helped her mother make dinner.
On Monday I called Elvira Montalban’s publishing house and
requested a meeting with the author. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the
1
VCR a videocassette recorder
distraught deeply upset and agitated
3 high-rolling spending large amounts of money
2
receptionist said. “Our authors don’t have time to meet with readers.”
“But I’m her … English translator. I came especially from
London to meet her.”
“In that case, I’ll see what I can do.”
She rang back in fifteen minutes to say that Elvira had agreed
to meet me the following day for lunch. “She’s looking forward to it,”
the receptionist told me.
The restaurant where Maria-Elvira suggested we meet was a typical
mesón1, a dimly lit inn with a wood oven, a tile2 floor, and oak beams3.
The specialties of such places were offal4 dishes and a chickpeachorizo stew5, known as cocido.
I had plenty of time to study the menu and mull over the predilection of Madrileños for brains and intestines and stomach linings6,
not to mention pig trotters7, ears, and even snouts. Maria-Elvira was
late, so late that I thought she wasn’t going to show. When she finally
appeared, I was amazed at the change in her. She looked elegant and
well-dressed, no longer with her hair bundled up and her make-up too
thick, no longer wearing clothes that seemed wrong somehow. Her
face was still long, her brows still heavy, but her hair was fashionably
cut and streaked8 and her lips were a luscious shade of crimson. She
made her way over to my table with determined grace, a woman who
had found her role.
“Well,” she said in Spanish. “We meet again, my friend.” She
kissed my cheek lightly, as if we were great pals9.
I couldn’t help it. I admired her. She looked the part of Elvira
Montalban so much better than I ever could, me with my wild Irish hair
and freckles, with my working-class fears of making a social faux-pas.
Maria-Elvira looked Spanish, she looked intellectual, she looked like a
writer.
Stop it! I told myself. Elvira Montalban is your creation. This
Maria Escobar is nothing but an opportunist.
I handed her my menu without speaking.
“The menu del día is very good here,” she said, without looking
at the menu. “Unless you prefer tripe or brains.”
I shook my head. She gestured confidently to the waiter and
1
mesón an old-style restaurant
tile a thin square slab of glazed ceramic, cork, linoleum, or other material for
covering floors, walls, or other surfaces
3 beam a long, sturdy piece of squared timber or metal spanning an opening or part
of a building, usually to support the roof or floor above
4 offal the entrails and internal organs of an animal used as food
5 stew a dish of meat and vegetables cooked slowly in liquid in a closed dish or pan
6 lining a layer of different material covering the inside surface of something
7 trotter a pig’s foot used as food
8 streak dye hair with long, thin lines of a different, typically lighter color than one’s
natural hair color
9 pal a friend
2
gave him our order, two cocidos, then turned to me with a slight smile
that showed her rather large teeth.
I found that I was almost intimidated by her. In Paris, she’d had
the look of a displaced person, marginalized by history and geography.
She had spoken softly and timidly to the cafe waiter and had cringed1
when he turned his back on her. She had seemed to me one of those
people in the world who have been hurt rather badly, and in many
different ways, so that they do not spring back.
Now she did not shrink. Now she took up space.
“Not many of these old places left,” she said conversationally.
She took out a pack of cigarettes, offered them to me, and then lit up.
She hadn’t smoked before, but now she seemed to luxuriate in it. She
poured wine from the carafe and took a drink. Then she called the
waiter over and ordered a better bottle.
“How long have you been in Madrid?” I asked her grudgingly2.
“Oh, about two years, perhaps. I stayed on in Paris for a while,
but of course I was really dying there, I see that now. I thought at first
I was homesick, so I decided to go back to Buenos Aires. But naturally,
once I got there, after twenty years away, I realized that everything
had changed and I had no place there anymore. I spent about six
unhappy months, and then decided to come to Madrid, and to do what
I’d always wanted to do, which was to write. Of course, my stay in
Argentina was very useful in that it put me in mind of old familiar
places, and especially a kind of mood I wanted for my book.”
Cocido is usually served in three courses. The first of these, a
rich broth3 with a little rice, now arrived. I thought, This woman must
be a schizophrenic. She’s actually convinced herself that she’s Elvira
Montalban. She sounds like she’s giving an interview to a newspaper.
“And you, Cassandra,” she said, sipping her broth appreciatively. “What have you been up to? Still travelling as much as
ever? You were off to Mozambique then as I recall.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Still travelling. That is, when I’m not writing.”
“So you’re writing too?” No, she wasn’t insane. There was a
twinkle in her eye. As if this were all a joke.
“You know perfectly well what I’ve been writing.”
“I don’t, really,” she answered, dabbing4 gently at the corners
of her mouth. “Is it something based on your experiences, or did you
borrow someone else’s?”
Just then a couple of men, middle-aged, genial, expensively
suited, entered the restaurant. Maria-Elvira waved them over. They all
kissed and then she introduced them to me.
“My publisher,” she said, “and my editor. This is Cassandra
Reilly. She translated my book into English.”
1
cringe to bend one’s head and body in fear or in a servile manner
grudgingly reluctantly or resentfully
3 broth soup consisting of meat or vegetable chunks, and often rice, cooked in stock
4 dab to press against (her mouth) lightly with a piece of absorbent material in order
to clean or dry it
2
“Ah, yes, an unusual case,” said the publisher. “It’s not often where
the translation comes out before the original.”
“I’d tried many publishing houses and had been turned down,”
said Maria-Elvira sweetly. “Without the book’s success in England and
America, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have had a chance in Spain.”
“Well, the novel never crossed my desk,” said the editor. “I’m
sure I would have noticed it.”
They settled at a table in the corner, out of earshot. The
second course of the cocido arrived: chickpeas, with the vegetables
from the stew, cabbage, leeks, onions, turnips. Maria-Elvira attacked
it with relish.
“You set this up, didn’t you?” I said. “Suggesting we meet at
the restaurant where you know they always eat. It wasn’t coincidental.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Maria-Elvira said. “Now where
were we? Your writing? Yes. You were telling me where you get your
ideas.”
“You stole my book,” I said. “You’re not Elvira Montalban.
You’re Maria Escobar.”
“You stole my life.”
“I made the stories up. They’re not realistic. They’re fantastical.”
“You took my stories about my preparatory school and about
my teachers, and you turned them into something else. You put the
school in the future, and let the snow fall and gave it a fancy name. But
it’s my life. You captured my life perfectly.”
“Living a life is not the same as writing about it,” I said, but I
faltered1 slightly.
“That chapter where the girl from the happy family sees her
parents dragged2 off by the militia? That conversation in the interrogation chamber? That clandestine love affair between the powerful
professor and the young student? I could name several more, many
more scenes that were just as I told you. Didn’t I tell you too about my
terribly sad marriage to the Icelander and those dreadful winters we
passed in Reykjavík, hardly speaking while the snow fell on and on?
Didn’t I?”
Her voice sounded so familiar to me. As if it were an inner
voice of mine made visible. As if the cadences of her speech were
something I’d written down from dictation.
The waiter asked me if I’d finished my second course. I’d
hardly touched it, though Maria-Elvira had finished hers. He brought
the third and final plate: a pile of meat – beef, chorizo, blood sausage,
1
2
falter to speak in a hesitant or unsteady voice
drag to take (someone) from a place, despite their reluctance
some bits of unidentified organs and, poking out1 from the middle of
the pile, a pig’s trotter.
Instead of tackling it immediately, as she had the other two
courses, Maria-Elvira brought out a pile of papers from her bag. “You
see, I’ve already been writing my second novel. The publisher has
accepted it. It will be published next year.”
“You can’t do that. You’re not Elvira. I’m Elvira.”
“Have you written anything more by Elvira Montalban?”
I had to admit that no, I had not.
“Because you have nothing to say. You have no stories to tell,
now that you have used up mine. But I still have stories to tell.”
I opened my mouth, but stopped. My story was that of an IrishCatholic girl from Kalamazoo. I had been inventing myself as a traveller
and translator since I left home. I had no stories that I wanted to tell,
no stories that were either true or literary, no stories I thought anyone
would want to hear.
Now Maria-Elvira began to eat, and gestured to me to join her.
“I’ve always found this dish so curious, how it’s served. Separating all
the parts out, the broth, the vegetables, the meat. It’s quite a
metaphor, don’t you think? My ideas were the broth, nourishing but
thin; your translation the vegetables, good but not filling. And my final
version is the meat, chewy, spicy, substantial.”
“You call it a final version. You don’t call it a translation?”
“They were my words to start out with and now they’re my
words again. You will never write another book, Cassandra Reilly, but
I will write a dozen more. I’m a writer now. I don’t know how it
happened, but it happened.”
“I know how it happened,” I began, but in truth I didn’t know.
The process from nobody to novelist was just as mysterious to me as
it had ever been.
The editor and publisher came over again. “I was just telling
Cassandra about my next book,” said Maria-Elvira, patting2 the
manuscript beside her.
“It’s quite brilliant from what I’ve seen,” said the editor. “We
expect it to have an even greater success than La academia de la
melancholía.”
“Now all we need is title,” said the publisher. “Has anything
come to you yet?”
“Yes,” said Maria-Elvira. She pushed her plate away. All that
was left of the meat course was the bones. “I’m thinking of calling it
simply The Translator.”
I started.
“Because that’s really what it’s about, my years of translation.”
“The Translator,” said the editor. “Plain and yet evocative.”
1
poking out if an object is poking out from sth, you can see a part of it that is no
longer covered by sth else
2 pat to touch quickly and gently with the flat of the hand
“I like it too,” said the publisher, turning to me, “Have you and
Elvira already begun the translation process?”
“Yes,” said Maria-Elvira quickly. “I wouldn’t have anyone else.
Because Cassandra understands the craft extremely well. She understands it’s not just the art of substituting words for other words. It’s a
form of writing in itself. What one might call – a collaboration.”
Pendergast wasn’t pleased of course, but Jane Farquharson took the
long view, especially after she received a charming letter from Elvira
Montalban explaining the reasons for the secrecy. She told Jane that
she would be happy to give her new novel to Farquharson and Pendergast on the condition that I, Cassandra, remain her translator. Along
with the letter she sent a box of hothouse flowers.
And that’s how I became the translator of, or rather, the
collaborator of, Elvira Montalban, the author to whom Luisa Montiflores is often compared these days, the comparison, of course, highly
favoring Elvira.

The Last of the Menu Girls - WebCampus

Transcription

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