Olive Senior - PEN International
Olive Senior - PEN International
Olive Senior - PEN International
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WORDS ... ABOUT <strong>PEN</strong> INTERNATIONAL<br />
About <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong><br />
Published biannually, <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> presents the work of contemporary writers from<br />
around the world in English, French and Spanish. Founded in 1950, it was relaunched in<br />
2007 with the express goal of introducing the work of new and established writers to each<br />
other and to readers everywhere. Contributors have included Adonis, Margaret Atwood,<br />
Nawal El Saadawi, Nadine Gordimer, Günter Grass, Han Suyin, Chenjerai Hove, Alberto<br />
Manguel, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Moniro Ravanipour, Salman Rushdie, Wole Soyinka and<br />
many others. <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> is the magazine of the worldwide writers’ association,<br />
<strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>. For more information about our work, and for submission guidelines<br />
to the magazine, visit www.internationalpen.org.uk.<br />
À propos de <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong><br />
Le magazine <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> paraît deux fois par an. Il présente des œuvres d’écrivains<br />
contemporains du monde entier, en anglais, en français et en espagnol. Fondé en 1950, il<br />
a été relancé en 2007 avec pour but exprès de présenter les œuvres d’écrivains débutants<br />
aux écrivains établis, et vice versa, ainsi qu’aux lecteurs du monde entier. Il a recueilli la<br />
contribution d’Adonis, de Margaret Atwood, de Nawal El Saadawi, de Nadine Gordimer, de<br />
Günter Grass, de Han Suyin, de Chenjerai Hove, d’Alberto Manguel, de Ngugi wa Thiong’o,<br />
de Moniro Ravanipour, de Salman Rushdie, de Wole Soyinka et de nombre d’autres. <strong>PEN</strong><br />
<strong>International</strong> est le magazine de l’association internationale d’écrivains, <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong>.<br />
Pour plus d’informations sur notre travail, et pour prendre connaissance des conditions de<br />
soumission de contributions au magazine, rendez-vous sur www.internationalpen.org.uk.<br />
Acerca de <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong><br />
<strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> es una publicación semestral que presenta el trabajo de escritores<br />
contemporáneos de todo el mundo en inglés, francés y español. Esta publicación nació<br />
en 1950 y ha sido relanzada en 2007 con el objetivo de presentar el trabajo de escritores<br />
reconocidos y noveles a otros escritores y lectores de todo el mundo. Hasta ahora hemos<br />
recibido aportaciones de Adonis, Margaret Atwood, Nawal El Saadawi, Nadine Gordimer,<br />
Günter Grass, Han Suyin, Chenjerai Hove, Alberto Manguel, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Moniro<br />
Ravanipour, Salman Rushdie y Wole Soyinka, entre otros. <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> es la revista<br />
de la asociación internacional de escritores, <strong>PEN</strong> Internacional. Para obtener más<br />
información sobre nuestro trabajo y sobre cómo hacer aportaciones a la revista,<br />
visite www.internationalpen.org.uk.
2<br />
WORDS ... CONTENTS<br />
Contents<br />
4 EDITOR’S NOTE<br />
5 COMMEMORATION:<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Ed Sowerby 1971: Nguyên Chí Thiên<br />
6 POÈMES DE PROSE<br />
Sylvestre Clancier Histoire de fouilles / Histoires de fous / Histoires<br />
de maux / Histoires de mots<br />
9 POEM<br />
Sujata Bhatt Truth Is Mute<br />
11 CONMEMORACIÓN:<br />
COMITÉ DE ESCRITORES EN PRISIÓN: 50.º ANIVERSARIO<br />
Jamie Jauncey 1972: Xosé Luís Méndez Ferrín<br />
12 STORY<br />
Pauline Melville Is This Platform Four, Madam? Is It?<br />
16 ESSAI<br />
Patrice Nganang La Mort de la littérature francophone<br />
20 POEM<br />
<strong>Olive</strong> <strong>Senior</strong> Her Granddaughter Learns the Alphabet<br />
21 EXTRACTO<br />
Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo Los Hijos de la tribu<br />
26 STORY<br />
Esther Heboyan Picture Bride<br />
33 COMMEMORATION:<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH : Nguyên Chí Thiên<br />
ANNIVERSARY<br />
Tamara O’Brien 1986: Adam Michnik<br />
34 BLOOMBERG FOUND IN TRANSLATION / DÉCOUVERT<br />
EN TRADUCTION / DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN<br />
CONTE<br />
S. Y. Agnon Les Bougies<br />
Traduit de l’hébreu par Rita Sabah<br />
EXTRACTO<br />
Susana Medina Juguetes filosóficos<br />
Traducido del inglés por la autora<br />
POEMA<br />
Victor Terán Luna<br />
Traducido del zapoteco por el autor<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
40 COMMEMORATION:<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Matt Turner 1990: Aung San Suu Kyi<br />
41 EXCERPT<br />
Casey Merkin The Crimes of Paris<br />
45 CUENTA<br />
Sara Caba Le Temo<br />
47 POEM<br />
Anzhelina Polonskaya Two Birds<br />
POÈME<br />
Larissa Miller Intitulée<br />
48 GRAPHIC ESSAY<br />
Amruta Patil Seated Scribe<br />
50 COMMEMORATION:<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Nick Parker 1997: Faraj Sarkoohi<br />
51 POÈME<br />
Abdelmajid Benjelloun Les Yeux de Pessoa<br />
52 POEM<br />
John Mateer Pessanha’s House, Lisbon<br />
53 RECOLLECTION<br />
Walerian Domanski Smoke Factories<br />
57 CONTRIBUTORS<br />
Back cover:<br />
COMMEMORATION:<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Elise Valmorbida 2010: the Unknown Writer<br />
WORDS ... CONTENTS<br />
3<br />
Musine Kokalari 1960
4<br />
WORDS ... EDITOR’S NOTE<br />
Editor’s Note<br />
TROILUS: Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart:<br />
The effect doth operate another way.<br />
Troilus and Cressida, Act V, Sc. III<br />
Welcome to the 2010 spring/summer issue, which shares its theme with <strong>International</strong><br />
<strong>PEN</strong>’s Free the Word! festivals in Linz, Austria (October 2009) and London (April 2010),<br />
playing on Troilus’s cynical dismissal of his errant lover’s letter in Shakespeare’s<br />
tragedy. Free the Word! London gathered dozens of writers from as many countries,<br />
and here we present works by many festival participants including Sujata Bhatt,<br />
James Kelman, John Mateer, Pauline Melville, Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo, Amruta Patil,<br />
Nawal El Saadawi, <strong>Olive</strong> <strong>Senior</strong> and Michela Wrong. The festival’s inaugural event,<br />
a discussion about the re-shaping of English to express different cultural identities,<br />
is transcribed on page 71.<br />
Elsewhere, Kelman gives us the music of Glaswegian Scots through a conflicted<br />
pub-goer; one of Melville’s mysterious Gypsies obsesses over his final destination;<br />
Patil reflects on the proliferation of ‘scribes’; <strong>Senior</strong> experiences language as legacy;<br />
Walerian Domanski recalls a Stalinist fiction made policy; Lucio Lami remembers a<br />
haunting cry from a war zone; Susana Medina’s sculptress discovers el placer complejo<br />
del lenguaje; Patrice Nganang pronounces francophone literature ‘dead’; Rafik Schami<br />
chronicles the history of Arabic script; and Christopher L. Silzer learns his true name.<br />
This issue also commemorates fifty years of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s Writers in Prison<br />
Committee (WiPC), which has campaigned tirelessly on behalf of endangered<br />
minds, voices and words the world over. <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong> and the WiPC have<br />
launched ‘Because Writers Speak Their Minds’, a yearlong campaign of anniversary<br />
events, writing, petitions, special projects, case studies and much more (visit<br />
www.internationalpen.org.uk for details).<br />
Marking the occasion in these pages, we present six poems from 26:50, a creative<br />
collaboration between the WiPC and the writers’ association 26, conceived in<br />
conjunction with the WiPC’s own selection of fifty emblematic cases to illustrate the<br />
sad continuum of oppression as well as happy instances of reinstatement in cultural<br />
life.<br />
Words, words, nothing but … words? Indeed. Nothing but words, and the whole of life<br />
expressed though them: we hope you enjoy this issue, dedicated to the possibilities<br />
and limitations of language, and to the men and women shut up for exploring them.<br />
Mitchell Albert, Editor<br />
mitchell.albert@internationalpen.org.uk<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Ed Sowerby<br />
1971: Nguyên Chí Thiên<br />
It took me eight minutes to learn fifty words by heart last night.<br />
You didn’t remember fifty, you remembered five hundred.<br />
And not words, whole poems. Paperless poems.<br />
Stories from the Steel Trap.<br />
Forty years later it’s others who memorise them.<br />
Shows it’s not the ink that makes a writer.<br />
Poet Nguyên Chí Thiên . was detained repeatedly by the Vietnamese<br />
authorities for his writings and for ‘spreading propaganda’.<br />
He spent a total of twenty-seven years in prison, and was released<br />
in 1991. He lives in the US. See: ‘Because Writers Speak Their Minds’,<br />
the fiftieth-anniversary campaign of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s Writers in<br />
Prison Committee; www.internationalpen.org.uk and http://26-<br />
50.tumblr.com.<br />
5<br />
WiPC<br />
50
6<br />
DES PAROLES ... SYLVESTRE CLANCIER<br />
Sylvestre Clancier<br />
Histoire de fouilles / Histoires<br />
de fous / Histoires de maux /<br />
Histoires de mots<br />
I. Ethnologie<br />
Il avait une verrue banale au bout du pied, à chaque pas pesant<br />
des racines de Kwayanupik écorchaient sa verrue ; n’en pouvant<br />
plus, il demanda à son porteur Kornu de la tribu des Tarézons de<br />
lui faire un pansement. Ce dernier lui dit de s’asseoir au pied<br />
d’un grand Kanayou (lat : Quercus rosandus) et de l’attendre là.<br />
Quelques instants plus tard, le porteur revint en compagnie<br />
de deux guerriers de la tribu des Phrypouyes qui tenaient dans<br />
leurs bras des herbes Katayules (hypotheticae) des tiges de<br />
«Saxhos» (instrumenti musicae), des cheveux d’hommes dingos<br />
(delirio trementes) et des écailles de Krokos (reptili magni).<br />
L’un des guerriers s’adressa à notre héros en ces termes :<br />
« Ya – veve – rhuorhi, /yin – halo – boudhu, /dwa – acha –<br />
Kemhou, /wen – hanyeme – fezebo, /bhonan – pou – vhanpu,<br />
/yedemenh – daha – mopa, /pakre – pudelhatri, /bhude – tatre,<br />
/thordem – pherinbend, /dhaj – dhouye, /konetha – pehne –<br />
yeta, /porth – inpend, /zemanh. »<br />
Hélas, le porteur Kornu de la tribu des Tarézons ne connaissait<br />
pas la langue Phrypouye.<br />
Notre héros se mit à pleurer, les deux guerriers s’enfuirent en<br />
criant.<br />
II. Géologie<br />
« Ferrugineux est le métal, diamantaire est le charbon » se dit un<br />
jour, saisi d’une illumination soudaine, Narcisse Bougie. « Mais<br />
alors, allons-y, devenons riches ! » s’écria-t-il.<br />
Sans même s’en douter, il renouvela sur-champ une expérience<br />
historique. Tel Bernard Palissy il jeta ses meubles au feu, dans un<br />
but cependant différent puisqu’à vrai dire il n’en avait pas : sa<br />
seule motivation étant la certitude de s’enrichir.<br />
Il commanda ensuite un amas de charbon, il choisit<br />
l’anthracite pour son haut degré de parenté avec le diamant.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
DES PAROLES ... SYLVESTRE CLANCIER<br />
Il le fit entreposer dans sa maison, n’épargnant qu’un étroit réduit<br />
d’où, se nourrissant de pain et d’eau, il pourrait le contempler à loisir.<br />
Il savait que la recherche de l’or en pierre, à partir de certains<br />
principes philosophales, avait en vain préoccupé avant lui bon nombre<br />
d’honnêtes gens ; mais, sachant que le diamant était incomparable,<br />
il n’avait pas la moindre idée d’échec.<br />
Ses connaissances géologiques lui disaient qu’en plusieurs<br />
millénaires le charbon se changeait en diamant. Aussi, frénétiquement<br />
enthousiaste, il se mit à observer jour et nuit la lente évolution de<br />
son stock. Armé d’une loupe, il inspectait avec minutie les moindres<br />
fissures de chacun des boulets dans l’espoir d’y déceler un éclat plus<br />
intense.<br />
Son espoir était si ardent qu’il ne vit point le temps passer : le poids<br />
des ans ne pesa point sur ses épaules.<br />
Un matin, ou plutôt on ne sait quand, ses yeux se firent diamants :<br />
le charbon resplendissait. Il ouvrit sa fenêtre : le monde n’existait plus.<br />
Il faisait froid, une immense épaisseur de glace entourait sa maison.<br />
Il ne put enflammer ses diamants, et mourut bien avant qu’ils ne<br />
redeviennent charbons ardents.<br />
III. Métallurgie<br />
Les galeries s’emplissent du bruit de ses pas, les portes claquent, les<br />
murs résonnent et renvoient sa voix. Oui, Mr Peter Schönhold a la<br />
vulgaire manie d’inspecter tous les jours sa maison de retraite.<br />
Sous ses pieds crissent des graviers d’argent et vole une poussière<br />
d’or. En effet, Mr Peter, roi de l’acier suédois, eut l’idée voici quelques<br />
années de parer sa demeure de divers métaux rares. Un jour, il aime<br />
surveiller son jardinier taillant quelques haies de cobalt ; un autre, il<br />
ordonne à ses gens d’orner de pommes d’or ses compotiers d’ivoire,<br />
puis il s’en va allègrement pousser sa tondeuse chimique sur son gazon<br />
d’airain. Mais aujourd’hui, après une courte promenade, Mr Peter s’en<br />
va s’asseoir sur son fauteuil cuivré. De là, il s’attarde à contempler la<br />
massive statue d’argent allégorie du Temps qu’il a fait ériger au nom<br />
de la devise.<br />
Par la porte restée entrellée, notre roi de l’acier perçoit soudain<br />
des voix. Prêtant l’oreille, il entend de méchantes paroles :<br />
« Le Schönhold, c’est une vraie tête de bois.<br />
– Oui, c’est même un vrai cœur de pierre.<br />
– Tu as raison, et nos malheurs ne sont pas près de finir, car le<br />
bonhomme a une santé de fer. »<br />
Alors, le roi de l’acier suédois se tord de douleur sur son fauteuil<br />
cuivré.<br />
Toute une vie perdue : il s’en rend compte maintenant. Que lui<br />
7
8<br />
DES PAROLES ... SYLVESTRE CLANCIER<br />
importe que le Temps soit de l’argent, puisqu’il lui faut apprendre de<br />
la bouche de ses gens que lui-même, pauvre être misérable à la santé<br />
de fer, n’est rien qu’une tête de bois et un vrai cœur de pierre.<br />
Il s’est levé, est allé au jardin pour congédier son jardinier et lui donner<br />
ses pommes d’or. Puis il est rentré, a fermé ses volets et, se fiant au<br />
conseil de ses gens, est allé se coucher. Ainsi, ayant en peu de temps<br />
perdu son argent, sa tête de bois, son cœur de pierre, Mr Schönhold a<br />
sans plus attendre mis au clou sa santé de fer : on l’a trouvé mort le<br />
lendemain. Son modeste enterrement s’est passé sans histoire ; le jour<br />
suivant, Schönhold, le roi de l’acier, était oublié.<br />
Aujourd’hui, si lors d’un voyage en Suède, on fait un détour par la<br />
ville de Hockmarhaüsen, on peut voir dans un coin du cimetière une<br />
tombe abandonnée sur laquelle sont gravés ces mots :<br />
« Ci-gît Mr Peter Schönhold<br />
Il avait un cœur d’or. »<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Sujata Bhatt<br />
Truth Is Mute<br />
Truth is mute, she says,<br />
but you need words to find it.<br />
A bull’s head in water, a mermaid’s split tail –<br />
centuries in silt, and the words that came down to us:<br />
a blue spell of longing, now translucent on paper.<br />
Is filigrane the sound you want<br />
or is it watermark?<br />
How many dictionaries<br />
do you need for the words you seek?<br />
Remember, she says,<br />
instinct is wordless<br />
even as it lives within words.<br />
Remember, she says,<br />
love will be silent with love.<br />
Mother tongue, father tongue –<br />
when the child started to speak<br />
she used all her words at once,<br />
at once in a rush: pani, water, Wasser.<br />
When the child started to speak<br />
she meant fish and Fisch.<br />
How many languages must you learn<br />
before you can understand your own?<br />
When she lived on a mountain<br />
amongst people whose language<br />
WORDS ... SUJATA BHATT 9
10<br />
WORDS ... SUJATA BHATT<br />
she did not know, her own language turned<br />
into a festival of fruits, and a festival of birds.<br />
When she lived on a mountain<br />
oxygen-deprived, near ice-covered rocks,<br />
she only dreamt of the sea<br />
night after night – algae and seaweed.<br />
Will oxygen determine the meaning of your words?<br />
Remember, she says,<br />
love will be silent with salt.<br />
Remember, she says,<br />
truth is mute, and love will be silent.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
PALABRAS ... COMITÉ DE ESCRITORES EN PRISIÓN: 50. o ANIVERSARIO<br />
COMITÉ DE ESCRITORES EN PRISIÓN: 50. o ANIVERSARIO<br />
Jamie Jauncey<br />
1972: Xosé Luís Méndez Ferrín<br />
El general y tú<br />
compartíais un derecho<br />
Ese torpe bastardo<br />
boca llena de astillas<br />
la lengua maternal<br />
Mas cuando le puso<br />
su bota encima<br />
olvidó que los clavos<br />
en el régimen de prisión<br />
afilan la Resistencia<br />
aguzan el desprecio<br />
Mientras que la verdad<br />
como la saliva o la sangre<br />
se abre camino<br />
cuando hasta las lenguas están atadas<br />
Traducido del inglés por Franco Pesce<br />
Poeta, novelista, ensayista y profesor, Xosé Luís Méndez Ferrín<br />
estuvo en prisión bajo los regímenes de Franco y Suárez, en España,<br />
por la producción de ‘propaganda’ y por su actividad política.<br />
Fue liberado en 1980 y hoy vive y trabaja en España. Véase: ‘Porque<br />
los escritores dicen lo que piensan’, la campaña del quincuagésimo<br />
aniversario del Comité de Escritores en Prisión de <strong>PEN</strong> Internacional;<br />
www.internationalpen.org.uk, y también http://26-50.tumblr.com.<br />
11<br />
WiPC<br />
50
12<br />
WORDS ... PAULINE MELVILLE<br />
Pauline Melville<br />
Is This Platform Four, Madam?<br />
Is It?<br />
The taller of the two men was clearly agitated. He was in his twenties with a pale,<br />
oval face and dark glasses. His light stone-coloured mackintosh flared out slightly<br />
as he turned on his heel this way and that. Next to him stood a man wearing a<br />
light tweed jacket who might have been his father. The two men waited together<br />
on the concourse of Newcastle station. The station had recently been modernised.<br />
In an attempt to leave the Victorian era behind and enter the modern world it had<br />
been painted in bright nursery colours. Blue scaffolding enclosed the kiosks. Red<br />
tubular railings ran along the pedestrian bridge linking the other platforms.<br />
But the huge black overarching iron structures that supported the roof echoed<br />
the cat’s cradle of iron bridges over the Tyne and managed to hold the station in<br />
the grip of the city’s industrial past, open to the gritty airiness and invigorating<br />
breezes of the north. The older man’s white hair blew about in unruly wisps. There<br />
was something bucolic about him. He was portly, red-faced and moustachioed.<br />
The tweed jacket gave him the appearance of an English country squire. His<br />
feet were planted apart firmly on the ground. It was clear by his faint swaying<br />
backwards and forwards that he had been drinking. Beyond him a glinting skein<br />
of railway lines stretched away into the distance.<br />
The station was full of early evening summer light. Passengers had started to<br />
gather in anticipation of the London train. The younger of the two men approached<br />
a middle-aged woman who was sitting on a bench with her brown bag pinioned<br />
between her feet.<br />
‘Is this platform four, madam? Is it? Is it?’<br />
There was a hint of menace in the polite insistence of his questioning.<br />
The woman looked up to check the sign on the platform. The sign, directly<br />
overhead, said PLATFORM 4 in large letters.<br />
‘Yes. This is platform four.’<br />
‘Are you sure?’ He hovered in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other.<br />
‘Yes.’ She pointed to the sign.<br />
‘Good,’ he said. Without looking to where she was pointing, he turned away<br />
again. To the woman’s obvious surprise, she saw him approach someone else on<br />
the platform.<br />
‘Excuse me, sir, is this platform four?’ He asked the same question of the smartly<br />
dressed business man who stood nearby. Having reassured himself that this was<br />
indeed platform four, he returned to stand by the older man.<br />
The older man, oblivious to the comings and goings of his companion, readjusted<br />
his stance, once more setting his feet apart in the manner of a landlubber<br />
trying to catch his balance at sea He swayed forwards, corrected himself against<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
the pull of gravity, found the upright position, placed one hand on his chest and<br />
began to sing. His voice was light and melodious:<br />
In summertime when flow’rs do spring<br />
and birds sit on each tree,<br />
let lords and knights say what they will,<br />
there’s none so merry as we.<br />
WORDS ... PAULINE MELVILLE 13<br />
Other waiting passengers looked away. The songster seemed to have stepped out<br />
of a different period of history. When he had finished singing he looked around and<br />
said, in a melancholy tone, to no one in particular:<br />
‘Have you been to Milton Keynes? There’s nothing there.’ He paused. ‘Nothing<br />
there,’ he repeated, and heaved a great sigh, staring into the middle distance.<br />
The son, in contrast to the father’s relaxed manner, appeared precise, fastidious and<br />
nervous. There was something mocking in the expression on his pale face as he<br />
looked around the station. He waited for a minute or two before accosting another<br />
passerby:<br />
‘Excuse me, sir. Is the next train going to Doncaster? Is it the six-forty-five? Is it?’<br />
The passerby glanced at his watch and nodded. There was no mistaking the relief<br />
and intense satisfaction on the young man’s face as he acknowledged the gestured<br />
response: ‘It is. Good.’<br />
After a while the train that had been waiting in the distance began to snake its<br />
way slowly along to platform four. The woman on the bench stood up. Passengers<br />
drifted towards the edge of the platform. The young man turned and saw the<br />
approaching train, which caused a fluster of movement on his part, first toward the<br />
train; but then he swung suddenly away, and addressed a girl with spiky Mohican<br />
hair who was trying to fold up a buggy and at the same time keep an eye on her<br />
toddler:<br />
‘Is this the train going to Doncaster?’<br />
What had seemed from far away to be a toy metamorphosed into a huge<br />
train with buffet cars and dining cars gliding slowly towards them, rumbling and<br />
creaking as it came to a halt.<br />
‘Yes. This is it.’ She smiled and indicated the departures board, which stated<br />
clearly that the London train left at six-forty-five from platform four and would<br />
stop at Doncaster. ‘Look, see up there.’ But the young man was already quickening<br />
his pace to a loping run as he made his way back to his father.<br />
‘This is it. Quick,’ he said to his father with some urgency. ‘Everyone has said<br />
that this is it. They all say so. I have made several checks. The word is out that this is<br />
the right train.’ The father took his time ambling down the platform, a can of lager<br />
grasped in his hand. The son walked next to him, casting sharp anxious glances<br />
into the empty carriages. Hobbling behind them came the middle-aged woman<br />
whom the son had first addressed on the bench.<br />
The two men boarded the train and made their way down the centre aisle.<br />
They settled down opposite each other across one of the Formica-topped tables in<br />
the bleakly lit compartment. The woman was following them. She struggled to lift<br />
her bag into the overhead rack, then sat down heavily across the gangway from the<br />
pair. A handful of other passengers occupied the surrounding seats. The son could
14<br />
WORDS ... PAULINE MELVILLE<br />
not resist turning to ask one of them:<br />
‘Is this platform four?’ He received an affirmative grunt. The father scrunched<br />
up his empty can of lager, stuffed it down the side of his seat and pulled another<br />
can from his pocket, opening it with a fizzing spurt. As the train set off the younger<br />
man leaned towards the woman across the aisle:<br />
‘What time does the train reach Doncaster?’ he asked.<br />
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it’s after York.’<br />
‘After York?’ He sounded suspicious. His forehead wrinkled into a frown.<br />
The dark glasses looked at her with blank threats.<br />
‘Yes. Doncaster is after York,’ she added with a friendly smile.<br />
‘After York? Are you sure? Is it? Is it? I get confused. I’d hate to be wrong.’<br />
He suddenly seemed struck with heart-rending anxiety.<br />
‘We’re Gypsies.’ The older man leaned towards the woman, addressing her<br />
with an expansive air of intimacy and wreathing her with beer fumes: ‘We’re<br />
going to Doncaster. There’ll be plenty of Gypsies there tonight. The king is buried<br />
there. With his cat.’ He gazed down at the plain tabletop and shook his head with<br />
concern:<br />
‘Although the cat hops out sometimes.’ He looked up at her again with mischief<br />
in his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re on the Donny. We’re on the Donny tonight. We’ve come from<br />
Edinburgh. Bathgate. There will be plenty of us at the gathering tonight, coming<br />
from all over the country. We’ll pour ale on the grave. And have a big party. A great<br />
shindig. That is what we do.’<br />
The son was sitting up straight and staring ahead. The seat back caused a tuft<br />
of his hair to stand up on the back of his head.<br />
‘Yes.’ The older man rubbed his hands together with relish. ‘We’ll have a good<br />
time tonight. Everyone will be in Doncaster tonight. It’ll be cushty.’<br />
The train plunged into a tunnel with a screaming hoot, and the lights in the<br />
compartment dimmed. He leaned forward:<br />
‘It’ll be cushty. Cushty.’<br />
The woman’s interest was aroused. She was left with the impression that<br />
travellers were making their way from all over the country through the dark night<br />
on their way to this secret gathering in Doncaster. Suddenly she wanted to join<br />
them.<br />
‘Where will you stay?’ she asked, curious.<br />
The father’s reply was immediately evasive. ‘Oh I dunno. In a pub, perhaps.<br />
Someone will put us up. We will stay somewhere. That’s for certain.’<br />
‘We will not be staying nowhere,’ added the son in a tone that sounded oddly<br />
supercilious. Suddenly he leaned towards her and announced in a confidential<br />
undertone:<br />
‘I’m going to marry and settle down one day.’<br />
‘How many children will you have?’ she asked, smiling.<br />
‘One or two – if the wife will let me.’ He slumped back suddenly into his seat<br />
and looked wistful as he stared out the window at the darkening landscape.<br />
The red-faced father gazed ahead in a bucolic haze and took another sip of lager.<br />
He addressed his remarks to the whole carriage:<br />
‘My wife is buried in Lincolnshire. On the way back we shall make a detour to<br />
Newton by Toft. That is near Market Rasen. Her name was Rosemarie. I want to put<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... PAULINE MELVILLE<br />
flowers on her grave. Hollyhocks, I think. She liked those. And lupins. Ah, now there<br />
it is beautiful. There is nothing in Milton Keynes.’ He started to sing a song about<br />
the River Afton in a tuneful voice as the train rumbled along. Then he stumbled<br />
over the words of the song, whistled for a bit, took a swig of lager from his can and<br />
picked up the thread:<br />
‘Oh, wild whistling blackbirds …’<br />
He lapsed into silence, moving from side to side with the motion of the train.<br />
Outside the night grew dark. The lighted train moved through the countryside.<br />
The train stopped at York station which caused a flurry of questions from the<br />
young man to ensure that it was not Doncaster. As the train set off again people<br />
returned from the buffet car, clutching polystyrene boxes of food as they tried to<br />
retain their balance and slopping hot coffees from plastic cartons. The carriage<br />
filled with the aroma of lukewarm chips.<br />
The train pulled into Doncaster.<br />
‘This is Doncaster, I think,’ said the woman, cupping her hand over her eyes<br />
and resting her forehead against the window as she tried to see out into the<br />
darkness. The name of the station was flashing past. ‘Can you see the signs?’<br />
she asked. ‘The train is pulling in too fast for me to read them properly.’<br />
‘We don’t read signs, madam,’ said the son haughtily as he looked around him<br />
for someone else to ask whether or not the train had arrived in Doncaster.<br />
‘We don’t read at all. We can’t read,’ added his father sagely and with<br />
satisfaction, as though they were the wiser for it. ‘It was offered to us, but we<br />
turned it down.’ He whistled a soft tune under his breath as he got up from his<br />
seat. ‘We don’t need to read words while we’ve got tongues in our throats. All those<br />
squiggles and marks that are supposed to be words. We don’t need them. We can<br />
listen. We have tongues. We hold things in our heads. And besides, we have our<br />
own signs.’ He put his finger to the side of his nose and winked.<br />
The son turned to the woman in the seat behind him:<br />
‘Is this Doncaster, madam? Are you sure? Is it? It is. Good.’<br />
15
16<br />
DES PAROLES ... PATRICE NGANANG<br />
Patrice Nganang<br />
La mort de la littérature<br />
francophone<br />
La tragédie des peuples dominés est qu’ils doivent en des intervalles réguliers<br />
répéter les étapes de leur domination. Cette répétition c’est l’histoire de leur<br />
littérature quand celle-ci est inféodée à leur histoire politique: ainsi une génération<br />
qui aux cris de « retour aux sources! » découvre les valeurs de son moi racial est<br />
succédée par une autre qui, elle, se dissout dans l’universel en une aventure où<br />
chacun tragiquement croit avoir raison. A ce même moment s’entend le cri de<br />
‘retour aux sources!’ d’une nouvelle génération qui elle aussi croit innover en<br />
remplaçant race par nation, et qui va être dépassée par une autre qui découvre<br />
soudain les limbes du cosmopolitisme. Comme si ceux-là qui ne juraient que par<br />
la race n’étaient pas des cosmopolites! Tragique est cette aventure, pas seulement<br />
à cause du piétinement de l’esprit qu’elle comporte, mais surtout à cause du<br />
circulus vitiosus dans lequel elle enferme l’intelligence de nombreuses générations.<br />
L’histoire de la littérature africaine d’expression française est marquée au signe de<br />
cette cyclique répétition, écrite qu’elle est sous ce double leitmotiv, d’abord racial<br />
et puis national, qui l’un comme l’autre ouvrent sur leur propre sabordement. Le<br />
premier leitmotiv, son histoire est d’accord là-dessus, invente en 1939 le mot pour<br />
se désigner dans le Cahier d’un retour au pays natal d’Aimé Césaire, la négritude, en<br />
plein cœur de l’expérience coloniale et au début d’une mortelle guerre mondiale,<br />
et découvre son espace d’expression en 1948 dans l’Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie<br />
nègre et malgache publiée par Léopold Sédar Senghor. L’Anthologie était une œuvre<br />
de circonstance, qui réunissait surtout des intellectuels francophones basés à Paris,<br />
on le sait ; mais elle était aussi une volonté d’inscription des mots de ces écrivains<br />
africains dans l’histoire générale des peuples noirs, un enracinement donc, 1848<br />
étant la date de l’abolition de l’esclavage dans l’espace français. « Schoelcher<br />
s’élevait avec fougue », tels sont d’ailleurs les premiers mots de ce livre devenu<br />
classique, « contre le préjugé qui attribuait aux noirs une ‘incapacité cérébrale’<br />
et proclamait ‘que la prétendue pauvreté intellectuelle des nègres est une erreur<br />
crée, entretenue, perpétrée par l’esclavage. » Victor Schoelcher, cet abolitionniste<br />
à qui Aimé Césaire consacrera bientôt un livre. Dire qu’il s’agissait de la prise de<br />
parole de l’affranchi, c’est souligner une évidence; mais croire qu’ainsi la littérature<br />
arrachait un peuple au paradigme de sa domination, c’est dire un leurre dont les<br />
écrivains d’Afrique ne sont pas encore sortis.<br />
S’il est inutile donc de signaler que Senghor, Césaire et Damas, le masculin<br />
triumvirat de la négritude, avait conscience de commencer l’histoire intellectuelle<br />
africaine contemporaine sur un nouveau pied; et c’est-à-dire surtout de cirer les<br />
chaussures de ce pied-là au noir, l’histoire de la littérature des peuples d’Afrique<br />
nous a enseigné entretemps, elle, que dans les sifflotements de leur entrain<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
DES PAROLES ... PATRICE NGANANG<br />
poétique, ils répétaient l’écho d’une voix qui avait été entendue au début du siècle,<br />
au cœur de l’Amérique de la Negro Renaissance. L’anthologie-maitresse d’Alain<br />
Locke, The New Negro : Voices of the Harlem Renaissance publiée en 1925, le lieu où<br />
cette voix s’était trouvé son élan, réunissait cette génération d’Africains-Américains<br />
qui dans les sources de la race voulaient trouver l’origine de leur chant. La clôture<br />
du grand cri enfermé entre les pages de l’anthologie de Locke aura lieu avec Ralph<br />
Ellison, l’auteur de Invisible Man, et chantre de l’intégration, qu’il formula d’ailleurs<br />
clairement dans son « Haverford Statement », en plein cœur des révoltes de 1969,<br />
quand la jeunesse noire animée par ce qu’elle appelait « nationalisme » l’appelait<br />
« sell-out », c’est-à-dire « vendu » : « j’insisterai sur mon affirmation personnelle de<br />
l’intégration sans perte de notre identité unique en tant que peuple comme étant<br />
le but possible, en fait inévitable des américains noirs », leur répondra-t-il. Si donc<br />
la négritude fait écho à la Harlem Renaissance, et d’ailleurs Senghor a toujours<br />
insisté sur cette généalogie transatlantique, la découverte par le poète-président de<br />
la « Civilisation de l’Universel », du « rendez-vous du donner et du recevoir » comme<br />
étant son achèvement nécessaire, ne peut que faire écho à cette vision clôturante<br />
d’Ellison. Il faut peut-être lire les dernières pages de l’essai-mitraillette de James<br />
Baldwin, The Fire Next Time, pour voir l’explosif que cette communauté par-delà les<br />
races représentait pour une Amérique couchée dans le lit hirsute du racisme.<br />
C’est pourtant dans les pages même de l’Anthologie de Senghor, en une<br />
introduction bien historique celle-là, « Orphée noir », que Jean-Paul Sartre aura<br />
défini l’achèvement de l’idée de la négritude comme logique, et pronostiqué<br />
sa clôture comme sabordement. ‘En fait’, écrit-il dans des lignes qu’aura le plus<br />
souligné Frantz Fanon, son lecteur assidu, « la négritude apparaît comme le temps<br />
faible d’une progression dialectique … Ce moment négatif n’a pas de suffisance<br />
en lui-même… Il vise à préparer la synthèse ou réalisation de l’humain dans<br />
une société sans races. Ainsi elle est pour se détruire, elle est passage et non<br />
aboutissement, moyen et non fin dernière. » Frantz Fanon précise, dans Peau<br />
noire, masques blancs, publié en 1952 : « Jean-Paul Sartre, dans cette étude a détruit<br />
l’enthousiasme noir »; et il continue perspicace, car il a compris que c’était l’acte de<br />
décès du mouvement qui était écrit ici avec son introduction : « l’erreur de Sartre a<br />
été non seulement de vouloir aller à la source de la source, mais en quelque sorte<br />
de tarir la source. » Pourtant ce qu’il n’aurait peut-être pas soupçonné, Fanon,<br />
c’est que « l’erreur de Sartre » sera très vite celle de Senghor, car dans l’évolution<br />
de son histoire, avec la « Civilisation de l’Universel », la négritude senghorienne<br />
écrira son propre sabordement, comme pour encore mieux donner raison à son<br />
bienfaiteur critique et préfacier parisien de 1948 ! Ah, n’est-ce pas là, dirait-on,<br />
déjà une répétition de cette histoire qui dans la littérature africaine-américaine<br />
avec Ralph Ellison avait clôt jadis les promesses racialisantes de la Harlem<br />
Renaissance ? Si seulement avec la fin de la négritude, le cercle qui limite la parole<br />
africaine dominée était ici enfin voué aux archives des idées ? Que non ! Il faudra<br />
qu’il se trouve aussi des tentacules caribéennes pour, dans le dépassement de la<br />
négritude cesairienne par cette autre trinité masculine, Chamoiseau, Bernabé<br />
et Confiant, découvrir également dans le flamboyant tombeau de la creolité sa<br />
suicidaire épiphanie ! Ainsi donc, comme possédée dans ses trois manifestations<br />
par la dictée d’une identique pulsion ontologique, la littérature des peuples noirs<br />
a-t-elle toujours trouvé, ici et là, des États-Unis aux Antilles et en Afrique, son<br />
17
18<br />
DES PAROLES ... PATRICE NGANANG<br />
anéantissement au bout d’une évolution par tout logique qui la fait tragiquement<br />
déboucher dans la béatitude universelle de son émiettement.<br />
Comme s’il n’y avait de mort digne que lorsqu’elle ne se vit pas une, mais<br />
deux, mais trois fois, le second leitmotiv de la littérature africaine d’expression<br />
française n’échappera pas à la logique répétitive de son histoire encerclée dans le<br />
paradigme de la domination. Or ici, c’est Frantz Fanon qui définira sa parturition<br />
dans les sources des projets nationaux africains de 1960. La critique de la littérature<br />
africaine ne s’est pas encore vraiment éloignée de la répartition dans Les Damnés<br />
de la terre en trois phases, des textes produits par les écrivains du continent :<br />
d’abord la littérature assimilationniste, née sous le parapluie de la condition<br />
coloniale ; ensuite le réveil à la race dont la jouvence abreuve l’écrivain au point<br />
de le constiper ; et puis enfin, plus importante pour Fanon, la littérature nationale,<br />
fruit d’une conscience bâtie au fourneau de la nation au matin de sa naissance. Fi<br />
de la race dans ce projet national des idées africaines, oui, mais c’est pour découvrir<br />
dans la nation l’origine de la littérature nouvelle, et continuer l’inféodation de<br />
la chose littéraire sous le projet politique, même si différent, celui-là ! Ils sont<br />
nombreux les auteurs qui figurent dans ce canon de la littéraire derechef enracinée<br />
dans la politique, qui au Congo avec Tchikaya U’Tamsi, au Sénégal avec Mariama<br />
Ba ou Boubacar Boris Biop, au Cameroun avec les derniers romans de Mongo Beti,<br />
ont écrit cela que sont les nations en réalité : des fictions. Or dans leur dos voici<br />
recommencer le parcours qu’on sait déjà, d’une littérature qui à peine née, de<br />
manière effiévrée court déjà vers son propre sabordement heureux! Ici avouons-le<br />
le chemin est autre, même si les étapes sont presque calquées sur le leitmotiv qui<br />
à la négritude avait déjà dicté son suicide. Les pages les plus illisibles aujourd’hui<br />
de Les Damnés de la terre, sont sans doute celles dans lesquelles Fanon argumente<br />
avec peine contre l’idéologie de la bourgeoisie néocoloniale, idéologie qui pour lui<br />
a une désignation bien claire : le cosmopolitisme. Pour Fanon le cosmopolitisme<br />
n’est pas seulement économique, donc dépendance par rapport à la métropole ;<br />
dans une tradition bien marxiste qui lui préférait l’internationalisme, il est avant<br />
tout idéologique : sa littérature est assimilationniste. Au lieu du cosmopolitisme<br />
c’est donc plutôt l’internationalisme qui fera l’auteur martiniquais embrasser la<br />
cause algérienne à rebours du triangle infâme qui a inscrit dans l’Atlantique les<br />
racines de la diaspora noire, car le cosmopolitisme voilà pour lui bien l’ordure à<br />
jeter ! C’est au nationalisme qu’il offre au contraire un futur, et par extension, au<br />
panafricanisme qui selon lui le conclut.<br />
Certes nous écrivons aujourd’hui au chevet du projet identitaire : plus que<br />
le sabordement senghorien, le génocide qui eut lieu au Rwanda en 1994 en a<br />
marqué la plus cinglante conclusion. Nous écrivons à l’extérieur du parapluie des<br />
États : l’émigration ininterrompue des auteurs africains et même l’implosion de<br />
certains États tel la Somalie ou le Soudan auront été suffisants pour nous dire<br />
combien nos pays sont mortels. Pourtant surtout c’est au milieu des ruines du<br />
projet national qui porta l’indépendance de bien d’États africains que s’installe<br />
la racine de nos mots. Voilà les conditions qui suffiraient pour expliquer le retour<br />
en force aujourd’hui du cosmopolitisme. S’il est difficile de trouver amusant cela<br />
qui faisait rire un Mongo Beti quand il écoutait le sud-africain Lewis Nkosi se<br />
présenter au congrès des écrivains africains de Berlin en 1977 comme étant un «<br />
Africain anglo-saxon », c’est sans doute parce que nous vivons bien dans une autre<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
DES PAROLES ... PATRICE NGANANG<br />
époque, nous. « Nous somme orphelins de nations », disait Sami Tchak ; des beasts<br />
of no nation, lui répond le titre d’un roman récent d’Iweala. Même les malheurs si<br />
chantés jadis de l’écrivain en exil ont perdu de leurs lustres, l’exil comme concept<br />
n’étant plus entendu lui aussi que comme un autre chapitre du projet national.<br />
Des « migrants », dit-on plutôt aujourd’hui, ou alors des « nomades » – nous<br />
sommes des écrivains « accessoirement africains », selon la formule de Waberi.<br />
Cosmopolitanism d’Anthony Appiah peut tracer dans la Grèce antique la généalogie<br />
des actes communs posés dans le marché de Koumassi, actes qui sous un regard<br />
entrainé à la lecture fanonienne, et qui à travers Hegel puisait lui aussi chez les<br />
Grecs, n’y aurait sans doute vu que démission la conscience nationale. En réalité,<br />
une réécriture de notre temps est en train d’avoir lieu. Elle cherche ses concepts en<br />
tâtonnant, mais refuse d’aller en profondeur. Son credo c’est la dénationalisation de<br />
la littérature africaine. La dénationalisation de la littérature francophone africaine<br />
aujourd’hui fait cependant écho à sa déracialisation annoncée déjà en 1948 par<br />
Sartre. C’est que la dialectique de l’histoire des peuples dominés est inévitable<br />
dans sa cyclique nécrophagie. Plus pauvres en concepts que nos ainés, des auteurs<br />
africains ont découvert aujourd’hui soudain dans les promesses de la « littératuremonde<br />
en français » et accumulé dans un manifeste publié dans Le Monde, des<br />
mots pour réactualiser, paraphrasons un peu Sartre ici, « la synthèse ou réalisation<br />
de l’humain dans un espace français sans nations », tandis que dans les concepts<br />
d’Édouard Glissant ils ont trouvé l’écume notionnelle pour dire leur continent: «<br />
l’identité-monde ». Dites, comment ne pas rire, car la dialectique est ce couperet<br />
qui ici aussi de cette nouvelle littérature francophone annonce déjà la mort, alors<br />
que le continent africain a encore tant d’histoires à raconter ! C’est le monde (en<br />
français) qu’ils veulent conquérir, nous disent ces auteurs francomondiaux – et ils<br />
croient innover! Les critiques ne peuvent que se réjouir, eux pour le bonheur de<br />
qui la littérature africaine a été réduite par ses propres auteurs a deux librairies<br />
parisiennes. Mais il y a pire cependant que ces balbutiements théoriques, car au<br />
fond, la littérature africaine francophone ne répète que le cercle de sa fuite en avant<br />
qu’on sait déjà, et dont la conclusion au fond a toujours été son anéantissement.<br />
Or cette fois ce n’est plus la négritude ou la nation, c’est la littérature africaine<br />
que ses auteurs mettent sur la balance. Eux qui heureux entérinent la mort de<br />
la littérature francophone dans l’’universel’ de la ‘littérature-monde en français’,<br />
entendent-ils cette voix si proche pourtant qui leur conseille d’inverser le tout,<br />
bref, de revenir au b a ba de la chose littéraire, et leur chuchote un mot qui est un<br />
sésame? Ce mot c’est shümum. Avec lui, c’est l’écriture préemptive qui annonce<br />
une fois de plus son train.<br />
19
20<br />
WORDS ... OLIVE SENIOR<br />
<strong>Olive</strong> <strong>Senior</strong><br />
Her Granddaughter Learns<br />
the Alphabet<br />
I myself had learnt the alphabet, once, long ago,<br />
in a place that was small and known.<br />
But my forgetfulness has grown.<br />
Here, your marks on paper scratch at my heart<br />
as if they were the dragon’s teeth sown,<br />
that split our tongues, that made us scatter,<br />
that made me forget myself, my own alphabet.<br />
I’m a poor guide but I want to erase those scratches,<br />
wipe the slate clean. I’m handing you over<br />
so you can go to places that I have never seen.<br />
This magic leads you on, doesn’t it? These hooks<br />
that pull the sounds fresh from your mouth<br />
and place them in your fist.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo<br />
Extracto de la novela<br />
Los Hijos de la tribu<br />
PALABRAS ... DONATO NDONGO-BIDYOGO 21<br />
Los Hijos de la tribu es la tercera parte de la trilogía iniciada con Las Tinieblas de<br />
tu memoria negra y continúada en Los Poderes de la tempestad. En ella, el autor<br />
narra la historia de Guinea Equatorial a través de un personaje principal, sin nombre,<br />
símbolo de todo el pueblo e hilo conductor de la saga. Mientras la primera de estas<br />
novelas abarca el período colonial, y la segunda describe los efectos sobre las personas<br />
de la dictadura de Francisco Macías, el primer presidente del país, Los hijos de la tribu<br />
– aún no terminada – comparte con el lector las vicisitudes del pueblo guineano en su<br />
empeño por recuperar la libertad y la dignidad.<br />
En el primer capítulo (al que pertenece el fragmento publicado) se presenta el<br />
ocaso de un régimen personalista, y se sugieren las transformaciones de un país y<br />
de una sociedad decididos a trascender una etapa ominosa para labrar un futuro<br />
esperanzador. Futuro representado por Niña Tasia, la esposa más joven del anciano<br />
déspota, y que contribuirá de modo decisivo al alumbramiento de una nueva<br />
sociedad que saldrá del oscurantismo.<br />
Del capítulo ‘Cero’<br />
Niña Tasia sollozaba acurrucada en el rincón, los ojos velados por las palmas de<br />
sus manos. Antes que la desgracia que caía sobre ella, viuda a los diecinueve años,<br />
le asustaba ser la causa ¿directa? de la muerte de su marido, por las exigencias<br />
de su cuerpo joven que el lujurioso anciano no podía satisfacer; su legendaria<br />
virilidad queda ba reducida a las interminables, exasperantes y monótonas<br />
peroratas oníricas sobre sus hazañas pretéritas, increíbles para ella, a la vista<br />
de la ruina humana que gimió como niño la noche que se reconoció incapaz<br />
de consumar la desfloración; pero, sobre todo, le aterraban las dudas ante su<br />
incierto futuro, cómo reaccionarán los familiares de mi esposo tras los funerales,<br />
me cargarán el muerto sólo porque expiró entre mis piernas, y me maltratarán,<br />
me encarcelarán, o, apartada de mis hijos, seré confinada en mi mísera aldea,<br />
donde apenas he terminado la casa de cemento que mi padre pidió en dote, por<br />
la tacañería proverbial de un fulano considerado entre los magnates más sólidos,<br />
ante el cual doblaban la cerviz los poderosos de la Tierra aunque lo tuvieran por<br />
un choricete basto y advenedizo, cuya ocupación principal y más grata consistía<br />
en recontar cada semana los billetes de divisas que abarrotaban decenas de<br />
maletines diseminados por sus palacetes, cotejar sus numerosas cuentas repartidas<br />
por medio mundo, evaluar sus inversiones en diversas empresas internacionales,<br />
controlando el destino de cada céntimo, y regodearse en la fortuna acumulada<br />
por el chico listo del ínclito Nze Mebiang, cuyos sortilegios de nigromante le
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habían preparado para ser líder entre los líderes y rico entre los ricos. Sesiones de<br />
autoafirmación que culminaban con el visionado de las cintas que mostraban las<br />
lujosas mansiones que poseía allá y acullá en las principales urbes extranjeras y<br />
demás paraísos terrenales, todo ello fruto del latrocinio constante de los recursos<br />
que negaba a su desventurado y mísero pueblo. ¿Para qué tanta avaricia si a la<br />
eternidad se parte tan desnudo como se llega? Y aun cuando todavía no fuese<br />
el tiempo de las plañideras, el luto oficial, Niña Tasia hacía lo imposible por<br />
manifestar su dolor ante la irreparable pérdida, aunque en verdad no sintiese<br />
sino alivio en aquel malhadado trance que daría un vuelco inesperado a su vida:<br />
sólo era otra de las muchas prisioneras perpetuas del serrallo. Necesario actuar<br />
con inteligencia y discreción, ser cauta hasta el detalle, estudiar sus gestos, pasos,<br />
actitudes, palabras, para no dar con sus huesos en las mazmorras del crudelísimo<br />
Esom Esom ni caer víctima de los maleficios brujeriles del fiero Obigli o torturada<br />
con su saña sádica por los perversos y crapulosos sobrinos, todos ahí de pie,<br />
contemplando el cipote desafiante con el que el momio salió victorioso de mil<br />
lances –decían- y que escondía en sí mismo la prueba de su final, que el astuto<br />
hermanísimo quizá no tardara en descubrir. Niña Tasia se arrepentía ahora de<br />
la presteza con la que había dado la voz de alarma al retén de guardia apostado<br />
al otro lado de la puerta cuando, de súbito, el vejete encaramado sobre ella cayó<br />
inerte sobre su cuerpo y cesaron los siempre agónicos y roncos resoplidos: apenas<br />
tuvo tiempo de reaccionar, de pensar. No debió sucumbir al pánico. Conocía bien<br />
los hábitos de la corte de los milagros, cómo se las gastaban los íncubos en las<br />
salvajes noches de aquelarre. Un país en el que los leales eran impunes y todos los<br />
habitantes reos de muerte, con la sola excepción del preboste y su acólito Esom<br />
Esom, único que le humanizaba quizás por su lealtad perruna: aunque dotada<br />
y por tanto tan esposa como las otras, en realidad sólo era la novena concubina<br />
oficial del muy lascivo Jefe Supremo, y tanto su juventud como su condición de<br />
favorita podían volverse contra ella si sus intrigantes rivales se confabulaban<br />
con los allegados del abuelete depravado y decidían sacrificarla para resarcirse<br />
de la desgracia. No era descabellado imaginar tal contubernio. ¿Y si, cumpliendo<br />
la tradición, la desposaba Esom Esom? Lo sabía: ninguna posibilidad de zafarse<br />
al destino; no soportaría ese sino inevitable, no lo soportaría. Lo juró: preferible<br />
el exilio a pertenecer a semejante patán; antes muerta que ser poseída por un<br />
criminal perverso cuyas manos chorreaban tanta sangre inocente.<br />
Se sentía incómoda en el cuarto pestilente, del que tampoco podía huir.<br />
¿Qué hacer? Pensó en su madre. Aunque participara en la conjura familiar para<br />
entregarla al poderoso y decrépito galán, quien con tal unión desmentiría las<br />
habladurías recurrentes sobre el cáncer que le había vuelto impotente, en el fondo<br />
la disculpaba, sabedora de que ella no había encontrado forma de impedir el enlace,<br />
no sólo por no ser capaz de resistir la tiránica coacción de su ambicioso progenitor,<br />
sino porque la negativa acarrea ría males irremediables para la familia y el clan.<br />
Su sacrificio aportaba seguridad y bienestar. ¿Quién osaría negarle algo o molestar<br />
a los parientes de la favorita de Su Excelencia? En aquel mundo de miedo, congoja<br />
y sordidez, era una óptima solución: sus hermanos obtuvieron buenos empleos;<br />
sus cuñados –en realidad sus hermanas- prosperaron; la envidiaban sus amigas;<br />
circulaba en coches imponentes; le sobraba la comida, y enviaba a su madre sacos<br />
enteros de arroz y pescado salado, macarrones, garbanzos y cajas de tomate frito<br />
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PALABRAS ... DONATO NDONGO-BIDYOGO<br />
enlatado. Los suyos se alimentaban ahora como blancos. Y engordaban. Ella misma<br />
satisfacía sus caprichos más allá de lo inimaginable. Viajaba a Europa para hacerse<br />
la manicura y renovar su ajuar … Bueno, y para … abortar. Dos veces. Doloroso<br />
pensar en esos dos crímenes, matar a los hijos de su único amor. Le indujo a injerir<br />
el fármaco con la misma inocencia – quién sabe si con la misma luciferina<br />
seducción- que cuando le convenció de que los dos primeros embarazos eran<br />
el fruto culminante de su brío sin par. Henchido de soberbia, se lo había tragado.<br />
Increíble la estulticia del viejo majadero. Un verdadero botarate. Mas tenía que<br />
reconocer que ambos amaban con especial devoción a aquellos retoños tardíos:<br />
el padre putativo porque confirmaban ante el mundo incrédulo su potencia<br />
inmarcesible; ella, porque los había concebido en verdaderos actos de amor. Nadie<br />
en la vida sería capaz de descubrir la jugada. Sólo ella conocía su secreto. Pero no se<br />
atrevió a multiplicar el engaño: alguien – las otras, los cuñados, él mismo – podría<br />
dudar de dotes tan portentosas, rayanas en lo milagroso. O puede que su Amor,<br />
herido, proclamara la impostura. Imposible confiar en los hombres, decía su madre,<br />
y por eso abortó. Dos veces. Por su seguridad y prosperidad, y el bienestar de su<br />
familia. Luego conoció los anticonceptivos, y cesaron las noches de zozobra …<br />
Y le había convencido, hacía un instante, de que tomara la píldora; no, dos mejor<br />
que una, el efecto será doble, le animó, sonriente, distendidos sus sensuales labios<br />
carnosos, al aire sus dientes regulares, blanquísimos, su piel clarita, tersa y suave,<br />
y sus hermosos pechos turgentes, rellenitos cuan mango en sazón. Y al poco cayó<br />
desplomado sobre ella, con la cosa bien dispuesta, como nunca había sido, algo<br />
grotesco, vaya. Pareció una broma; luego se asustó y perdió el juicio. El terror la<br />
aniquiló. El Dios de la Justicia era testigo de que no fue su intención. Todo había<br />
sucedido por Su designio. Ella era un mero instrumento de la voluntad del Altísimo.<br />
Nunca se le ocurrió que dos pastillitas pudieran matar. Sólo deseaba divertirse un<br />
poco a costa suya, reír sus gracias, alegrarle la tarde, alimentar su petulancia. Pero<br />
estaba hecho: ninguno creería la verdad, que un puro accidente aceleró la Historia;<br />
había logrado consumar el deseo de medio país; podrían pensar en una<br />
determinación alevosa, hacer de ella una arpía, un monstruo sin entrañas al<br />
servicio de la oposición radical o del terrorismo internacional, una enemiga del<br />
régimen que le daba de comer tan opíparamente, quién sabe si … Y en tal caso …<br />
Quizá … Quizá fuera mejor recrearse en los hechos positivos: tenía sirvientes, era<br />
respetada, temida; la distinguían al pasar, los coros cantaban loas en su honor;<br />
había escalado hasta la cima y podía considerarse ‘alguien’ en la sociedad y no la<br />
niña anónima, flacucha, pobre y bella que fue hasta que bailó para él en aquella<br />
gira por su comarca cuatro años atrás. En ese tiempo, había ido aprendiendo a ser<br />
Señora, según la llamaban sus subordinados y todos, para dejar atrás para siempre<br />
a la inocente y agreste campesina que estaba destinada a ser. Todo ese lustre a<br />
cambio de soportar en silencio sus bufidos, sus repugnantes manoseos, su<br />
horripilante piel macilenta, fofa y arrugada, el hastío de sus besos salivosos, su<br />
asque rosa boca desdentada cuando se quitaba los postizos al dormir. Seguridad<br />
y prosperidad. A cambio de guardar sus secretos, de mentir por omisión, de fingir<br />
siempre, de callar siempre, siempre. No recordaba haber sido joven. Nunca disfrutó<br />
de la vida. Nunca fue feliz. Aunque se daría cuenta mucho tiempo después, al<br />
principio deslumbrada por la ensoñación perpetua a causa de la molicie placentera<br />
en que transcurrían sus días, desde el primer momento había envejecido como él,<br />
23
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PALABRAS ... DONATO NDONGO-BIDYOGO<br />
obligada a transitar por esas sendas peligrosas para mantener su honor y no<br />
cometer ningún desatino que revolviera el espíritu desalmado del ogro vengativo.<br />
Superar siempre las asechanzas. Saber contener sus emociones. Remontar con<br />
coraje y vigor cuanta adversidad plagaba su funesta existencia en su jaula dorada.<br />
La melancolía como estado permanente, igualito que los animales que viera una<br />
vez en un zoológico de Europa, donde los saltos y la bulla de felinos y monos<br />
carecían de viveza, de la alegría espontánea de las fieras en libertad. Calculando<br />
cada paso, midiendo cada palabra, cada gesto. Tristeza, tristeza infinita reflejada en<br />
sus ojos secos, cansados de llorar. El cuerpo anheloso de ternura, no saciado con la<br />
fingida entrega mercenaria. Asfixiándose en sus cómodos aposentos, celda insufrible,<br />
sin más compañía que los niños, sin asideros, hastiada, el tedio irremediable<br />
de las noches y los días. ¿Había merecido la pena? Recordó los consejos de su<br />
madre, sé fuerte, hija, y muy paciente, y nunca olvides que el éxito de la mujer<br />
radica en la mater nidad y en su capacidad de aguante. Recordó sus caricias<br />
amorosas, su complicidad más allá de la comprensión. Hubiera preferido tenerla<br />
ahora a su lado, refugiarse en sus cálidos brazos para que la guiara en trance tan<br />
azaroso, pero estaba lejos, en el poblado. Se encontraba sola, atrozmente sola.<br />
¿Qué hacer? Aunque … Quizá no estuviese tan sola: él también pensaba en ella,<br />
sí, sin sospechar que le necesitaba más que nunca, que anidarse en su pecho le<br />
consolaba, podía serenarla. Sólo él representaba el indubitable triunfo de la bondad<br />
sobre la maldad, la certidumbre del final de un destino aciago, la honda esperanza<br />
en el esplendor venidero. Sólo él, con su abnegación, aportaba cierta ilusión a una<br />
existencia tan banal. Sólo él podría sufrir con ella, asumir su dolor, compensar las<br />
amarguras. Sólo él, a dos pasos apenas, tras la puerta cerrada, resentido por los<br />
celos, resabiado por el despecho, humillado por la impotencia, carcomido por el<br />
odio, sufriendo en silencio, siempre aguardando impaciente la salida del sátrapa.<br />
Esperando a que le rindiera el letargo de las soporíferas tardes bochornosas y<br />
dormitara en cualquier rincón de sus palacios para acudir a su lado. Aprovechando<br />
cualquier resquicio en el quehacer cotidiano para regalarse con las sobras del viejo<br />
carcamal y poseerla a hurtadillas, fogosa, ardorosa, desesperadamente fundido en<br />
ella como si fuese su última oportunidad antes de la consumación de los siglos.<br />
Soñaba a veces que él le mataba e iniciaban juntos una nueva vida; no podía ser<br />
tan difícil si siempre estaba a un paso tras él, portando su cartera y sus teléfonos<br />
móviles o acercándole el trono para que posara sus voluminosas nalgas flácidas.<br />
Pero ni se atrevía a pensarlo: la fantasía redo blaba su angustia. Determinados<br />
anhelos son más peligrosos, más pecaminosos que la traición carnal, que ese amor<br />
funesto, con dolor de muerte, que les situaba en el filo del desastre, esa pasión<br />
embravecida por el pavor que laceraba sus sentidos en las ausencias y en cada<br />
encuentro. ¿Había merecido la pena? ¿Qué sería de él, de ella, de sus hijitos<br />
inocentes, de su familia toda, ahora que acariciaba la posibilidad de sentirse limpia<br />
y libre por vez primera?<br />
Menos aturdida que cuantos permanecían encerrados en aquella habitación en<br />
penumbra, decorada con primor, infranqueable, sellada, Niña Tasia se dispuso a<br />
esperar. Ninguno sabía qué, y poco importaba, pero debían hacer de la necesidad<br />
virtud. Pensar. Sopesar. Calcular. Relegar al transcurso del tiempo la solución de<br />
todos los enigmas. Quizás hubiesen llegado al final de la partida. Quizá ya sonaran<br />
a lo lejos las trompetas de Jericó. O quizá no todo estuviese perdido y quedara<br />
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PALABRAS ... DONATO NDONGO-BIDYOGO 25<br />
alguna rendija por donde hallar la salvación. Seres despiadados, brutales, ahora<br />
embotados por la bruma de sus almas atormentadas, intuían el ocaso de su era,<br />
e imploraban, humildes y fervorosos, a sus espíritus protectores, y a todos los dioses<br />
del Universo, la suficiente presencia de ánimo para controlar la situación y salir<br />
con bien. No debían precipitarse. Nunca desfa llecer, porque era posible el milagro:<br />
Su Excelencia el Mariscal de Campo Don Gumersindo Nze Ebere Ekum, Presidente<br />
de la República, Jefe de Estado y del Gobierno, Coman dante en Jefe de los Ejércitos<br />
y Presidente-Fundador del Partido para el Bienestar del Pueblo, Invicto Caudillo y<br />
Guía Supremo de la Nación, había salido indemne de la prueba final, y en cualquier<br />
instante resurgiría de entre los muertos para restaurar el orden secular y la paz<br />
y armonía felizmente reinantes en el país.<br />
(Trabajo en curso, 2010)
26<br />
WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN<br />
Esther Heboyan<br />
The Picture Bride<br />
So I wrote this story, a story in black-and-white pictures of the sort purveyed over<br />
the years by Ara Güler’s ‘Istanbul’ and Robert Doisneau’s ‘Paris’, the two sonorous<br />
cities of my life (but that is another story; let us not get carried away). I wrote this<br />
story about a picture bride, a type one finds in the hamlets of ancient Anatolia as<br />
well as in the cosmopolitan quarters of Urbania.<br />
This picture bride, known as Aghavni Tchamitchyan, wore a melancholy smile<br />
in the pictures that journeyed by mail to strange lands, awaited by a Mardiross<br />
in São Paulo, a Hrant in Montreal, a Zaven in Lisbon, a Dikran in Johannesburg,<br />
a Mihran in Abidjan, a Theodoros in Salonika and, finally, a Garbiss in Vienna.<br />
However, for Aghavni, who had been pining away in her parents’ record store at<br />
Beyo-lu, a hole in the wall wedged between a cigarette stand and a trinket trade<br />
of some sort, none of those fervently auditioned and photographed suitors seemed<br />
to possess the good looks and stamina of her Elvis, the one and only, her prince,<br />
her pasha, for now and forever.<br />
‘I’d rather not,’ she would say to her parents, who had happily married off three<br />
elder daughters.<br />
Off to Melbourne flew beautiful Nadya: husband running a jewelry store, one<br />
daughter fluent in Australian English and Western Armenian. Off to New York<br />
sailed generous Zepur: wife to a delicatessen owner, mother of two healthy boys.<br />
As for bright Sonya, who settled so glamorously in Vienna, going to the opera and<br />
so on, in the wake of her husband – a doctor – she did, at one point, nurture hopes<br />
of introducing her youngest sister to an interesting fellow versed in Mekhitarist<br />
theology and miniature painting. But Aghavni failed to show any interest in<br />
Garbiss the Viennese.<br />
‘What’s wrong with you?!’ her parents would exclaim, taking turns. And then,<br />
to each other: ‘What’s wrong with her?’<br />
Bending over like a tilting snowdrop, elbows resting on the star-studded glass<br />
counter, Aghavni’s brain, eyes and ears filled with the velvety voice of Elvis Presley;<br />
the young woman thus whiled away her time in a side alley of Istanbul’s heartbeat.<br />
Rain, sleet or snow, she was welcoming even when other people groaned and<br />
grumbled. On such days she shut the door, which sported an unfortunate sign<br />
– THIS SHOP IS O<strong>PEN</strong> – and ecstatically turned up the volume of the German<br />
gramophone to rock, body and soul, to the King’s tremors, until her father or<br />
mother stomped in to curb her foolishness. Sometimes a customer entered,<br />
much to Aghavni’s dislike, with a view to rummaging through the vinyl singles<br />
she had tenderly arranged. Or worse, he would dart about with lurid glances, as<br />
though, instead of a shop entrance, he had come across a bright orange light bulb<br />
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WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN 27<br />
disentangling him from family, home and decency.<br />
Now and then, an Armenian youth posing as a lover of à la franga music<br />
walked in, faking a purchase of Adamo’s ‘Tombe la neige’ or Cliff Richard’s ‘Living<br />
Doll’. But somehow Aghavni knew the 45-rpms were most likely destined for a<br />
sibling or cousin. She could also tell the young men had been dispatched there<br />
by a conspiring trio that included her dutiful mother, her just-as-dutiful godmother<br />
and a despicable matchmaker fattened on gold, dolmas and lies. The most<br />
disheartening fact: those young Armenian men, dashing and well-intentioned<br />
though they might be, would unrepentantly enjoy nothing but à la turka music<br />
unto their grave. And she, Aghavni Tchamitchyan, who truly craved the mellow<br />
foreign sounds and undecipherable lyrics of unreachable rockers and crooners,<br />
would forever be denigrated by a houseful of in-laws and perhaps be banished<br />
to the back room to listen to Elvis purr and pulse on a second-hand Grundig:<br />
Are you lonesome tonight?/Do you miss me tonight?/Are you sorry we drifted apart?<br />
Aghavni cried her heart out when her Elvis, the one and only, her prince, her<br />
pasha, to whom she had secretly vowed infinite, fecund love, took for a spouse a<br />
certain Priscilla Beaulieu, who smiled from every newspaper and magazine cover.<br />
The caption invariably read: ‘The King has found his Queen.’ Elvis’s bride looked like<br />
a queen, all right. On all the pictures – without exception. Whether photographed<br />
full-face or in profile, that Priscilla looked as though she were made of silver and<br />
pearl, so pretty in her lush white gown and rippling raven hair adorned with an<br />
ethereal bridal veil.<br />
Aghavni wept for days. At first, she devoted herself to cutting out the<br />
newspaper clippings and the black-and-white pictures while she wept. Then<br />
she wept while gazing at the pictures and reading the articles. For two months,<br />
she stayed in her bedroom above the tiny record shop, shedding tears, blowing<br />
her nose into an unattractive feature, listening to Elvis’s amorous voice for<br />
hours on end.<br />
‘What’s wrong with you?’ yelled her parents, taking turns. They flailed their<br />
arms and shook their heads, but mostly tss-tssed as Oriental parents are wont<br />
to do.<br />
To make matters worse, moreover, they now had to run the shop themselves,<br />
and to explain their daughter’s illness to all who would listen. ‘What’s wrong with<br />
her?’ they asked each other again, once acquaintances and customers were out<br />
of sight.<br />
As Aghavni Tchamitchyan chewed on her misery, sudden hope materialised for<br />
Nazar Nazarian of Paris. There, in that world-famous capital city, in his very wallet,<br />
trilled the most promising picture bride of all time. Somehow, the destiny of this<br />
one lonely soul had to merge with that of another.<br />
This is when I came into the picture to write this story of this black-and-white<br />
bride coveted by lonesome Nazar. I went through three family albums to find my<br />
picture bride, the kind whose life story is either totally lost to younger generations<br />
or dealt out in bits and pieces. This one, with the wry smile? No one could<br />
remember, as though she happened to be an unwanted guest at her own wedding.<br />
That one, wearing the tiara? That must be, let me think, that must be chubby<br />
Artin’s eldest daughter, what was her name, by the way? Oh, look at this one, a<br />
legend in her time, a true nightingale, and such grace. And wasn’t that one called
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WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN<br />
Astrig, you know, the girl from the Adana orphanage, the one who was married<br />
to her foster parents’ son?<br />
To my utter amazement, not one Aghavni Tchamitchyan leaped out of the<br />
yellowing pages. Further research proved necessary in the homes of friends and<br />
relatives, all transplanted to distant lands with sets of photographs. To write<br />
a simple story, I thought, one goes a long ways off. Apparently luck, or fate, or<br />
whatever you call it, never quite fits the time and place a storyteller selects.<br />
Therefore I had Nazar Nazarian of Paris come across the snapshot of Aghavni<br />
Tchamitchyan by pure chance. A travelling friend of his, having journeyed all the<br />
way to Salonika, had been so enamoured with Aghavni’s picture that he handed it<br />
over to Nazar as a proof of their manly friendship. At the time, Nazar was regaining<br />
the confidence to want a second wife. The quest took the form of a long letter, plus<br />
a black-and-white photograph of the awaiting groom in front of the Eiffel Tower.<br />
‘That one?!’ howled the intended bride. ‘You can let him rot, in Paris or not!’<br />
Whereupon her parents tss-tssed in their parental manner and passed the pictured<br />
groom to relatives in Tarlabas Tarlabasi, , who were evidently cursed with a worse case in<br />
their own home.<br />
At the other end of the postal route, Nazar Nazarian of Paris kept up his<br />
expectations. Never a womaniser like his cousin Garo, a near twin, to whom he<br />
had been inevitably compared all those years – forty-three years, if one wished<br />
to keep track – he grew adamant about finding his other half, she palatable like<br />
dough cut into halves and laid on the kitchen counter before kneading, a herald<br />
of festivities. Nazar loved Aghavni’s picture: a young Armenian woman from<br />
Constantinople, a face daintily chiselled, a full-fledged body in modern dress, which<br />
modestly covered her knees and shoulders. A perfect match, he thought to himself.<br />
What Nazar liked about Aghavni most: she was born almost the same day as he,<br />
a sure sign of fate; she lived in Constantinople, he on the Rue de Constantinople by<br />
Gare Saint-Lazare; she had been christened ‘Aghavni’, like his ailing mother, and he<br />
was also very fond of the aghavnis that flew to his balcony – every day he would<br />
feed those birds, contemplating them, talking to them and playing his saz to on<br />
drowsy Sunday afternoons.<br />
It was on one such afternoon in Paris that Nazar’s mother, who lived in a<br />
two-room apartment below his, after hearing her son strum the saz listlessly,<br />
encouraged him to hunt for another wife in their city’s Armenian circles. But Nazar<br />
would have none of it. The second-generation Armenian girls in Paris did not speak<br />
Armenian, or cook Armenian. Many smoked, wore miniskirts and ran around with<br />
French men. Like his first wife. A whore, according to his mother. Gone with their<br />
shop assistant, after eight months of conjugal life.<br />
From his mother’s vengeful fury, Nazar had salvaged a snapshot taken on the<br />
beach at Saint-Raphaël, a picture of happy newlyweds in summertime. It had been<br />
their only vacation: she left him in the fall. Nazar didn’t miss her as a person, or as a<br />
wife (how could he?). But he missed her warmth, her brown body, her laughter, too.<br />
‘Too loud, too loud, she laughs like a whore,’ his mother would harp. Nazar winced<br />
at the memory.<br />
‘Well, well, well, show me that would-be bride of yours,’ intoned Nazar’s<br />
mother at teatime, settled in her armchair by the window. ‘Oh, my! Look at all the<br />
excrement on the balcony! My son, are you building Noah’s Ark, with pigeons up<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN 29<br />
there? What’s wrong with you?’<br />
The son poured the tea, nicely brewed as in the old country, and served a plate<br />
of kurabiye he had purchased at the Armenian grocery by the Métro Cadet. He put<br />
on his mother’s favourite song by Safiye Ayla, Kâtibim. His mother began humming<br />
along:<br />
Üsküdar’a gider iken aldı da bir ya˘gmur … Kâtibimin setresi uzun, ete˘gi çamur …<br />
Kâtip uykudan uyanmis, gözleri mahmur … Kâtip benim ben kâtibin, el ne<br />
karsır …<br />
Casting a glance at her own wedding picture on the wall, she sighed. Once so<br />
young, now so old. ‘So, my son, are you or are you not going to show me that bride<br />
of yours?’<br />
That evening, as Nazar sat down to write what he thought to be a love letter<br />
to Aghavni of Constantinople, he had no idea that she would never respond. As far<br />
as he was concerned, all was set. A man wished for a wife; a single woman, young<br />
or old, when solicited, had to fulfil that wish.<br />
Because stories meander this way and that, Aghavni Tchamitchyan’s story,<br />
too, took a new turn. The girl in Istanbul had been secretly dating a man, a Turk of<br />
Greek and Italian origin with some Albanian blood running in his veins too. This,<br />
Nazar Nazarian did not know. At the time, nobody knew.<br />
Only I, the storyteller, knew. Having examined all those picture brides, I could<br />
guess in whose eyes, whether cheerful or melancholy, simmered the story of love.<br />
Suppressed love, unrequited love, betrayed love all drew my empathy. Love at<br />
first sight, love against all odds, love spanning a lifetime all triggered my absolute<br />
admiration. I became all those picture brides. I was in Athens, Rome, Chicago,<br />
Toronto, I was everywhere. I found names on the back of the snapshots. Shakeh<br />
and Mihran, Beyrouth, 1953. Parantzem and Berdjo, Marseilles, 1937. Ani and Roupen,<br />
New York, 1961. For the anonymous, I invented names, which I had stored in my<br />
exiled mind: Talin, Alin, Vartoohi. I also invented stories – life stories, love stories<br />
(which do, incidentally, coincide with life stories), picture stories (remnants of<br />
childhood stories, no doubt) …<br />
This being one of those stories.<br />
When somehow the story has to wind to its climax, when the dough must be<br />
kneaded (to borrow lonesome Nazar’s favourite expression), there is but one option<br />
left: knead it, and bake it into any shape you want. Why not a heart shape, of all<br />
things? It is a heart-shaped picture that had started it all.<br />
The Turkish pretender, a brown-haired, blue-eyed heartbreaker of a man, had<br />
come by every evening for a week and bought several singles, among which<br />
was The Beatles’ latest hit, Michelle, and on a Saturday afternoon, after browsing<br />
through the à la franga collection with a connoisseur’s gusto, had left a paper heart<br />
on the square counter. On the other side, a scribble: Tomorrow, meet me aboard the<br />
2.15pm vapur to Büyük Ada.<br />
When tomorrow came, a falsehood – an outing long due with her best friends<br />
– allowed Aghavni to skip a Sunday at home. Cheeks, limbs and heart aflame,<br />
like a heroine out of Katherine Mansfield’s or Edith Wharton’s stories of love in<br />
picturesque settings that Aghavni, of course, had never heard of in those days, the
30<br />
WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN<br />
shopkeeper’s daughter ran to the Karaköy harbour, purchased her fare and<br />
climbed the ferry as one embraces destiny, come what may. For in the very city<br />
of Istanbul dwelled her Jimmy Dean, her Elvis Presley, now and forever. There<br />
he stood, silhouetted against the blue horizon, braving the wind and everything<br />
else. At first shy and perhaps a touch reluctant, Aghavni soon discovered the<br />
exquisiteness of love. She named her lover ‘My-Handsome’, though one side of<br />
his family called him ‘Niko’ while the other side insisted on ‘Gino’, not to mention<br />
those who preferred ‘Süleyman’ to ‘Niko’ and ‘Gino’ put together.<br />
On the following Sunday, as soon as they stepped on the island of Büyük<br />
Ada, they asked a phaeton driver to take a snapshot of them, on the back of which<br />
Aghavni wrote: My-Handsome and me – arrival at Büyük Ada, June 1969. Then they<br />
let the horsecab carry them to the opposite side of the island, where hilltops and<br />
beach coves afforded sufficient intimacy. First they bounded all the way to the<br />
Greek monastery, holding hands, exhorting each other to hike the steep, rocky lane.<br />
Were I a worshipper of symbolic omens, I would make them trample a scary snake<br />
of some sort. I choose not to, though, despite the fact that, a long long time ago,<br />
I saw a real-life greyish snake on that same island. Consequently, once atop the hill,<br />
the lovelorn couple beheld the seascape, panting, kissing, laughing. Afterwards, in<br />
what seemed to be a time warp casting off the hours, days and years of their lives,<br />
they leaned against the shaded stonewall of the monastery, eager for more kisses<br />
and caresses. Aghavni let Süleyman press his lips, hands and body against hers.<br />
She tasted his tongue, swift and vigorous, joyous like a song. She felt the bulge of<br />
his sex, its boldness. ‘Let’s go back down,’ she murmured.<br />
There were more Sundays. Saturdays too. For the youth of Istanbul, the hot<br />
summer meant long days at the beach, boat excursions to the Prince Islands or to<br />
the cities on the Asian shore. Aghavni had a ready-made palette of lies to present<br />
to her parents. Unlike her best friends, she could not introduce Süleyman to her<br />
family and say: ‘Here is the young man I love.’ She thought they would expect her<br />
to complete the sentence with: ‘Please, forgive me.’ They would ask her to give<br />
him up. On the spot. Just like that. And how could she? Süleyman was the voice,<br />
the presence, the comfort she had longed for. She knew he would never be invited<br />
into her home. Most likely she herself would never be welcome into his. Call it the<br />
heritage of history, or the unwritten law of the country, or a custom stuffed with<br />
hypocrisy when all, without contest, gorged themselves on the same food, drink<br />
and music. When all knew the meaning of love.<br />
Therefore, as far as Aghavni Tchamitchyan was concerned, Süleyman<br />
remained her secret lover in that unique photo taken by the harbour in Büyük Ada.<br />
She imagined herself as his bride, kissed the picture goodnight and good morning,<br />
night after night, day after day, awaiting a resolution of some sort.<br />
This is when I, the storyteller, step in again. I have heard of miraculous<br />
resolutions in all areas of human existence, and in some ways have the power<br />
to devise at least one, despite the fact that I myself never ever was a believer in<br />
miracles. To add more despondency to the picture, I happened to recall the story<br />
of poor Armenoohi from Dolapdere, who hanged herself after her father –<br />
a staunch Apostolic Orthodox – had chased her wooer, a Catholic, a traitor.<br />
This is one of the reasons I considered sending Aghavni Tchamitchyan to a<br />
hammam in the fall of that same year. I pictured her in the Galatasaray hammam<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN 31<br />
where my own mother insisted on taking my sister and me. The occasion<br />
was our first – and last –homecoming trip. My sister and I both fainted, almost<br />
simultaneously. Our Europeanised bodies had not been ready for the vaporous,<br />
racy damp heat of a Turkish bath. To this day the sight of a tin bowl with its<br />
pageantry of frothy nudeness churns my heart, bones and guts to nausea.<br />
The only other time I felt disgust for exhibited female flesh was in an Iowa City<br />
open-air swimming pool where sturdy women, mostly students, shaved their legs,<br />
forelegs and armpits in a frenzy. Never before had I witnessed such a collective<br />
ritual to eliminate what was, after all, body hair. Were those American girls made<br />
of rubber skin, to resist the stinging chlorine of the pool? And if not, was selfinflicted<br />
torture the rule for baiting a partner in the lounge or water area?<br />
There is no telling who among the Midwestern bathing beauties was about to<br />
catch a date, a mate, a long-lasting love, as Aghavni Tchamitchyan, followed by her<br />
dutiful mother, no less dutiful godmother and her impeccable twins, walked into<br />
the hammam on that October morning. There is no telling. But that seems beside<br />
the point.<br />
‘What extraordinary skin you have, my Sweetie, so smooth, so light,’ said the<br />
godmother to Aghavni. ‘Yes, so smooth, so light,’ she repeated, as they all stepped<br />
into the steamy, slippery inner bath chamber, wobbly in their borrowed takunye<br />
that clanged on the tiled floor of the hararet; and as though there was a need for<br />
a second emotional outburst, the godmother again said: ‘What an extraordinary<br />
skin you have, my Sweetie, so smooth, so light.’<br />
Aghavni never took such remarks for compliments. They expressed persistent<br />
jealousy on the part of the godmother whose own daughters, the twins Verjin and<br />
Mari, had darker skin, indeed dark as dark can be, inherited from their father’s side,<br />
of course, a point no one failed to highlight at baptisms and at the birthdays that<br />
followed baptisms.<br />
Aghavni had always dreaded those moments of flattery that inevitably led<br />
the godmother to fondle and sometimes pinch – yes, even pinch – with hands<br />
heavily fleshed and ringed, that alien white skin of hers. Verjin and Mari, inclined<br />
to imitate their mother in all fields of life (and one could foresee a future of bulky<br />
ruby fingers, God bless all coffee-readers’ souls) would also cajole and pinch her: in<br />
childhood, playing their vicious parts at playtime, and in adolescence, vying with<br />
their long-designated rival to the point of stupid cruelty. (‘Go to Hell! Both of you!<br />
You mean little misses!’ Aghavni had slapped the twins when they once tried to<br />
kiss her on the mouth.)<br />
Sitting on the curve of the navel stone, Aghavni was in no mood to remove her<br />
pestemal and expose her nakedness to the other women. At that very moment,<br />
she felt exposed enough in her perspiring vulnerable whiteness of leg, arm and<br />
shoulder. The godmother’s phrase oozed through her head as though coming from<br />
many a tedious year: What extraordinary skin she has, our Aghavni, so smooth, so<br />
light. As time elapsed, the twins, Aghavni sensed, had developed such a deep dislike<br />
toward their fairer relative that she never confided in them. For one second, though,<br />
she wished she could.<br />
‘Come on, don’t be such a mourner!’ bleated one of the girls, who was being<br />
scrubbed by an attendant. Aghavni ignored the invitation to lie down on the<br />
heated marble, and looked at her belly under the white towel. Not much roundness.
32<br />
WORDS ... ESTHER HEBOYAN<br />
Not yet, anyway. There was some time to go before she gained any weight. She<br />
stared all around her: hanging breasts, thighs, buttocks, bellies. Hordes of women.<br />
Imperfect, yet resigned, and surprisingly cheerful. Aghavni stood up and walked<br />
to an alcove to the left of the hammam. There she turned on the fountain, sank to<br />
her knees and began punching herself, like she used to punch the çörek dough for<br />
Easter. (That had set her elder sisters giggling.) Now she only had her eyes to cry<br />
with, as the saying goes. So she cried, as her blood silently turned the water red.<br />
Then she passed out.<br />
That could have meant the end of Aghavni Tchamitchyan.<br />
But it is not the way I want the story to end.<br />
I have heard of women who had survived all kinds of tragic circumstances.<br />
I personally know several who have pulled themselves from the worst trauma.<br />
Skin-deep betrayal, beatings, rape, incest, imprisonment, torture, brain tumours,<br />
psychosomatic eczema, typhus, joblessness, bug-infested lodgings, starvation,<br />
drug addiction, abortion, public humiliation, political exile, the death of a child.<br />
There is no end to those stories. Fortunately, there are always women blessed with<br />
good luck, the kind of luck that propels them to stardom, princedom or dazzledom.<br />
Therefore, I will give the story its glorious twist, with a Hermann Cenneto˘glu<br />
from Manchester, England playing deus ex machina. A near-botanist in his spare<br />
time, but mainly a florist in pursuit of happy effects, this Hermann Cenneto˘glu<br />
spotted his ‘Magnolia-Girl’ from a distance. On a three-day visit to Istanbul, he<br />
happened to meet Aghavni Tchamitchyan at a social gathering. It was love at first<br />
sight.<br />
‘You must know …’ Aghavni confessed. ‘You must know that I love Elvis Presley,<br />
and that I am with someone else’s child.’<br />
‘I understand,’ he answered.<br />
‘You pry not. I blabber not. It’s best.’<br />
‘It’s best,’ agreed the man from Manchester. ‘May I have a picture of my bride,<br />
though? To remember you by. It will be a while before you reach England.’<br />
‘I’d rather not, Dear,’ she replied. ‘A picture bride is the last thing I want to be.’<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Like you, I never believed in an ideal state.<br />
Just messy, domestic democracy.<br />
Our history’s a digging out from under,<br />
Our politics simple: the ousting of tyrants.<br />
I was schooled, like you, at Adam Mickiewicz.<br />
At seventy, grant me the grace<br />
WORDS ... WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Tamara O’Brien<br />
1986: Adam Michnik<br />
Of that grin they couldn’t wipe from your face.<br />
Essayist, editor and political organiser Adam Michnik was<br />
imprisoned for a total of six years in Communist Poland for his<br />
writings and activism. In 1989 he participated in the creation of<br />
the Soviet Bloc’s first non-Communist government. He lives and<br />
works in Poland. See: ‘Because Writers Speak Their Minds’, the<br />
fiftieth-anniversary campaign of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s Writers<br />
in Prison Committee; www.internationalpen.org.uk and<br />
http://26-50.tumblr.com.<br />
33<br />
WiPC<br />
50
34<br />
DES PAROLES ... DÉCOUVERT EN TRADUCTION<br />
FOUND IN TRANSLATION<br />
DÉCOUVERT EN TRADUCTION<br />
DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN<br />
SPONSORED BY<br />
Made possible with support from Bloomberg, ‘Found in Translation’ features<br />
at least one story, excerpt, poem or essay per issue, newly rendered from<br />
any source language into English, French or Spanish. The works will have<br />
never before been published in these languages, or will have been previously<br />
published for a limited readership only.<br />
S. Y. Agnon<br />
Les bougies<br />
Traduit de l’hébreu par Rita Sabah<br />
Je décidai de prendre le temps d’aller à la plage. J’étais bien trop occupé pendant la<br />
semaine pour penser à me baigner, mais la veille du shabbat, dans l’après-midi, je me<br />
libérai de toutes mes obligations, pris une liquette propre et partis me baigner.<br />
En chemin, je rencontrai monsieur Apropo. C’était un homme d’une taille<br />
inférieure à la moyenne, avec un gros ventre tout rond ou peut-être carré, le dos<br />
courbé et la tête posée sur le cœur, le visage toujours gai et un sourire figé sur les<br />
lèvres. C’est ce sourire qui m’attira, même si je savais qu’il ne m’était pas adressé.<br />
Je lui fis un signe de tête et lui dis bonjour. Après m’avoir salué à son tour, il me<br />
demanda si j’allais prier chez les kabbalistes. J’acquiesçai en silence, mais sans même<br />
prononcer un mot je lui avais menti. Je ne voulais pas lui mentir mais il m’était<br />
difficile de ne pas être du même avis que lui. J’étais gêné, comme à chaque fois<br />
que je rencontrais monsieur Apropo, car je savais que je ne lui donnais pas entière<br />
satisfaction, sans doute parce que j’avais regardé sa fille alors qu’elle ne m’était pas<br />
destinée.<br />
Je finis par le suivre et rentrai avec lui dans une maison que je ne connaissais<br />
pas. Tout y était prêt pour le shabbat, mais les gens de la maison vaquaient à leurs<br />
occupations comme s’il s’agissait d’un jour de semaine. Il y avait là un homme qui<br />
vendait des livres écrits en samaritain. Je les feuilletai et, à ma grande surprise, je<br />
compris tout ce que je lisais. J’eus l’impression que ces pages m’étaient connues, soit<br />
parce que je les avais écrites moi-même et qu’elles avaient été retranscrites dans<br />
cette langue, soit parce que j’avais voulu les écrire, en vain parce que ma plume ne les<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
DES PAROLES ... DÉCOUVERT EN TRADUCTION<br />
avait pas trouvées. Mon vieux père se tenait à l’écart et me regardait en silence.<br />
La kippa vissée sur la tête, il avait les yeux mi-clos et semblait habité par une tristesse<br />
venue d’un autre monde. Ses papillotes blanches tombaient sur ses joues maigres<br />
telles des clochettes d’argent dont on n’entendait jamais les grelots.<br />
Pendant que je lisais, la lumière déclinait. Haïm Apropo partit de son côté et<br />
moi je restai figé sur place. C’est alors que je vis, plantées dans quatre chandeliers<br />
en bronze, quatre bougies sur le point de tomber. Je voulus les redresser afin qu’elles<br />
ne brûlent pas la nappe et la table. Une bougie se tordit dans ma main, une autre<br />
fondit dans mes doigts, et les deux dernières finirent par se déformer elles aussi.<br />
Je commençai à regretter d’avoir suivi monsieur Apropo et de m’être mêlé de<br />
ce qui ne me regardait pas. Mais maintenant j’avais déjà commencé, je ne pouvais<br />
plus revenir en arrière. Je m’épongeai le front et posai mes affaires pour me libérer<br />
les mains, puis je revins à mes bougies. Mes mains se ramollirent et mes doigts<br />
s’embrouillèrent.<br />
En relevant la tête, je vis qu’on avait déjà allumé les lumières de shabbat dans<br />
toutes les habitations du quartier et que mes hôtes avaient l’air irrités. Je me dis,<br />
les bougies ont été allumées partout dans ces maisons avant la prière du shabbat.<br />
En tout cas, il fallait se presser. Je jetai un regard sur mon vieux père. Sa lèvre<br />
inférieure s’allongea et s’affaissa, comme s’il était mécontent de ce qu’il voyait.<br />
Une fois de plus je me dis : me voilà avec les bougies des autres alors que je suis<br />
sensé me baigner.<br />
Au moment où je me souvenais de la mer, elle apparut devant mes yeux ;<br />
beaucoup de gens avaient de l’eau jusqu’au nombril. Je me demandai comment<br />
j’allais faire pour me sortir de là quand un homme se pencha par la fenêtre, regarda<br />
dehors puis retourna la tête et dit : « Mésopotamie. » La Mésopotamie n’avait rien<br />
à voir là-dedans, mais je compris qu’il s’agissait d’un langage crypté. Cette personne<br />
utilisait un langage abstrait pour ne pas m’embarrasser. Je pris peur et je me dirigeai<br />
vers la plage.<br />
La mer se souleva et les eaux se dressèrent comme un mur. Puis la mer se retira<br />
et les baigneurs continuèrent à patauger dans les flaques d’eau luisantes dans la<br />
lumière du soleil couchant. Certains étaient nus, d’autres habillés légèrement, et<br />
d’autres encore avaient leur liquette sur les yeux, comme s’ils n’avaient pas fini<br />
de l’enfiler. Je cherchai un endroit où poser mon paquet mais je ne trouvai aucune<br />
place libre. J’étais gêné d’être la seule personne habillée parmi tous ces gens nus.<br />
Quand je décidai de m’en aller, je vis comme un pont jeté sur la mer. Je posai mon<br />
paquet sous le pont, près d’une flaque d’eau, j’ôtai mes vêtements et me préparai<br />
à sauter à l’eau.<br />
Soudain, j’eus peur de ne plus distinguer le vêtement que je venais d’enlever<br />
de la liquette propre que j’avais emportée avec moi. La mer remonta et me mouilla<br />
les pieds. Je m’élançai et grimpai sur le pont. Et le voilà qui s’ébranle et commence<br />
à bouger.<br />
35
36<br />
PALABRAS ... DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN<br />
Susana Medina<br />
Extracto de la novela inédita<br />
Juguetes fi losófi cos<br />
Traducido del inglés por la autora<br />
Juguetes filosóficos trata sobre nuestra relación con los objetos, las cosas, los fetiches,<br />
los secretos de familia que se pueden descubrir a través de sus pertenencias. En este<br />
extracto del segundo capítulo, la narradora medita sobre la dislocación lingüística<br />
que experimentó al comienzo de su vida en Londres.<br />
En aquel tiempo, el tiempo no existía, era tan estimulante, la abolición del tiempo.<br />
Era el tiempo de correr, los pensamientos reflexivos te impedían correr, tenían<br />
demasiado peso, había algo entorpecedor en la reflexión, yo quería correr. Corría en<br />
todas direcciones, saboreando el hecho de que hiciera lo que hiciera, no importaba<br />
lo inconsecuente que fuera, estaba aprendiendo una lengua nueva. Saboreaba riñas<br />
con novios, donde aprendía formas nuevas de expresar la furia, insultos oscuros,<br />
expresiones absurdas como ‘no te hagas las bragas un lío’, y a veces incluso visitaba<br />
al gerente de mi banco con transacciones complicadas para recibir enseñanza<br />
gratuita en inglés financiero. Pronto me dí cuenta de que la mayoría de la gente<br />
en esta ciudad, incluida yo misma, hablaba un inglés raro. La mayoría de la gente<br />
era de otro lugar. Durante mis años adolescentes, había aprendido algo de inglés<br />
escuchando canciones pop que traducía concienzudamente y cantaba a voz en<br />
grito sabiendo que el canto no es mi punto fuerte. También, durante tres años había<br />
aprendido una versión patois en el colegio con una mujer guapa y alegre que había<br />
logrado convertir la lengua inglesa en un dialecto que sonaba perfectamente a<br />
español, lo que me hizo sospechar que practicaba una forma audaz de sátira. Sus<br />
palabras inglesas tenían una calidad angular, su entonación era perfectamente<br />
andaluza y había transferido bastantes sonidos del español al inglés, haciendo que<br />
sonara como una catástrofe sofisticada, un accidente con estilo a la espera de un<br />
estudio lingüístico de mutaciones extrañas del inglés.<br />
El inglés que hablaba cuando llegué a Londres, sólo me permitía los intercambios<br />
más básicos. Asistí a clases de inglés con jóvenes misionarios involuntarios<br />
que viajaban por el mundo diseminando la lengua de un imperio que se había<br />
trasladado al otro lado del Atlántico. Hacía los deberes, escribía las palabras nuevas<br />
en un pequeño cuaderno rojo. Aprendí inglés con un punk inglés auténtico, John K.<br />
Lucía una cresta verde. Era un desastre a tiempo completo, pero un punk de verdad,<br />
para mí el equivalente de la realeza inglesa, un novio trofeo del que hablar con mis<br />
amigos en Almería. Era de Mile End. Su habla era una mezcla del londinense de la<br />
clase popular y el argot más callejero. Me enseñó cómo pedir un cigarrillo: ‘got a<br />
fag, mate’, a decir ‘innit’, ‘blimey’, ‘wa´er’ y a no decir ‘my’ sino ‘me’: ‘me brother’, ‘me<br />
grub’. Me despigmalionizó a su manera. Rápidamente desarrollé un acento y un<br />
vocabulario que asombraba a mis profesores de inglés. Yo ni siquiera sabía que había<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
adquirido un acento cockney. Cuando lo dejé, me persiguió durante un tiempo.<br />
Me dejó un mensaje en el contestador en el que suspiraba: eres un puta tan<br />
encantadora, eso es lo que adoro de ti. Luego otro que decía: púdrete en el infierno.<br />
Luego otro: me gustaba tanto la forma en la que tarareabas mientras … Y luego otro:<br />
¿todavía me quieres? Entonces cambié de número de teléfono. Supongo que me<br />
cansé del realismo sucio. Fue entonces que conocí a Mary Jane.<br />
Mi ignorancia lingüística era tan flexible que mi acento se transformó en un<br />
acento afectado cuando conocí a Mary Jane Prendergast. La conocí en la Escuela<br />
Slade de Arte, en una fiesta anual que se celebraba con fresas y nata en el patio<br />
interior. Se me acercó, me puso una fresa en la boca, extendió la mano y dijo: Mary<br />
Jane Loquesea, encantada de conocerte.<br />
Mary Jane era una estudiante madura, de bonito pelo pelirojo largo y liso, en su<br />
mejilla un lunar aterciopelado que era una entrada insospechada a otra dimensión.<br />
Había sido asistente de dentista, hablaba con gran cariño sobre los instrumentos<br />
relucientes, las prótesis, llevaba ropa de colores cuando todo el mundo iba vestido<br />
de negro. No estábamos interesadas en la pintura. Nos interesaba más crear<br />
esculturas con objetos encontrados, encuentros inesperados de cosas, entidades de<br />
alguna forma perturbadoras, objetos inquietantes. Mary Jane hizo un monstruoso<br />
ojo femenino, con pestañas rizadas extra tupidas. Yo hice unas narices de Pinocho<br />
que se retorcían en formas caprichosas.<br />
Es extrañíííííííííííííísimo, Mary Jane solía decir, alzando las cejas, abriendo los ojos<br />
hasta el grado más excesivo, estirando la palabra hasta el límite, deformándola hasta<br />
que la palabra se descomponía dejando un rastro espectral que flotaba alrededor<br />
de ella. Le encantaba transformar lo perfectamente normal en extraño. Extraño.<br />
Nos encantaba todo lo extraño. Por supuesto, la normalidad era definitivamente<br />
extraña, a veces nos interesaba ese tipo de extrañeza, pero la mayoría del tiempo<br />
cultivábamos situaciones enrarecidas. Cultivábamos todo lo que nos empujara a<br />
una realidad diferente. A las dos nos fascinaban los traumas, las patologías, las<br />
compulsiones, las fronteras borrosas, los placeres negativos. Lo explorábamos en<br />
nuestras vidas, en nuestro trabajo. La repetición, el deseo, la destrucción, eso era lo<br />
que nos atraía, objetos desagradables, la belleza de lo abyecto, transmutar la mierda<br />
en oro y el oro en plumas.<br />
[…]<br />
PALABRAS ... DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN 37<br />
Mira esa flor, es extrañíííííííííííííísima.<br />
Mary Jane me enseñó a reconocer flores extrañamente libidinosas, a buscar<br />
esculturas involuntarias, a observar la forma, el color y la textura de las cosas<br />
naturales y fabricadas. No me dí cuenta hasta que empecé a hacer de escritora<br />
fantasma sobre Buñuel, pero de alguna forma, estábamos trabajando dentro de<br />
la tradición surrealista. Inconscientemente tuvimos que sentir que esa tradición<br />
no estaba exhausta, especialmente la tradición de objetos ominosos, de objetos<br />
perversamente sexualizados. Nunca conectamos nuestro trabajo al surrealismo<br />
pues lo veíamos como un movimiento prehistórico y remoto que había sido<br />
completamente absorbido por la publicidad. Pero como nosotras, los surrealistas<br />
estaban interesados en poner lo visible al servicio de lo invisible, habían explorado<br />
el sex-appeal de lo inorgánico, veían la demencia como un lugar de exploración
38<br />
PALABRAS ... DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN<br />
artística. Como los surrealistas, queríamos crear una atmósfera de ambivalencia<br />
psíquica, provocar a través de la ambigüedad, el terror sublime, la belleza abyecta.<br />
Nos hundimos en las profundidades de la abyección para crear una obra que fuera<br />
interesante. Sin lugar a dudas, algunos de los surrealistas tenían cuelgues con las<br />
mujeres. Nosotras también teníamos cuelgues con los hombres, pero más que nada,<br />
con nuestras identidades de mujer. Nos dimos cuenta de que de muchas formas<br />
estábamos metidas en un mero juego de invertir los papeles. Por aquel entonces no<br />
entendíamos que a veces se teme al objeto de deseo, que a veces el deseo con su fuerza<br />
ilimitada es como para temerlo. Se nos hizo cada vez más imposible ignorar que<br />
estábamos convirtiendo al miedo en sarcasmo.<br />
Estuvimos todo aquel año tratando de solucionar estas cosas. Mary Jane estuvo<br />
consultando sus cosas con la almohada. Yo desmenucé mi escritura hasta su esencia<br />
más mínima. Solía escribir cuentos antes de conocer a Mary Jane. Cuentos sobre<br />
dulces hombres desastre, toda mi vida giraba alrededor de la búsqueda de historias.<br />
Entonces me cansé de las historias. Había leído tantas. Escrito tantas. Decidí que lo<br />
que me encantaba de la lectura, de la escritura, era la forma en que una frase<br />
encarnaba una verdad insospechada, las constelaciones perfectas de palabras, el<br />
ritmo, el placer complejo del lenguaje. Las historias se volvieron sospechosas, la ilusión<br />
de que había un significado tras todo este caos, una mentira. Quería seguir la lógica<br />
de los sonidos, quería descubrir las afinidades secretas de las palabras, no quería<br />
sacrificar la vida de las palabras con el fin de contar una historia. Desmenucé las<br />
historias en fragmentos. Y los fragmentos en más fragmentos. Quería algo diferente.<br />
Los fragmentos eran tan resistentes.<br />
Palabras. Me fascinaban tanto por su significado como por su música. Me<br />
encantaba la forma en que fluían juntas hacia melodías impredecibles, su pulso, su<br />
sonido como materia, su textura. Me encantaban las palabras en todas las lenguas,<br />
pero sobre todo me encantaban las palabras en español. No quería sacrificar mi propia<br />
lengua materna para adoptar una lengua nueva como hacen algunos extranjeros<br />
cuando se van desnudando de su lengua materna para encajar en una cultura nueva,<br />
sólo para descubrir que no encajan en ninguna de las dos. Era una forma de agarrarme<br />
a mi identidad lingüística. Leía ávidamente en mi propia lengua para mantenerla<br />
a la perfección. Escribía en mi propia lengua mientras aprendía inglés, incluso si no<br />
lo podía compartir con nadie: en general, los ingleses tienden a ser resueltamente<br />
monolingües, un excentricismo vergonzoso, un escándalo.<br />
Me hice adicta al diccionario. Había algo desconcertante cuando buscaba la<br />
traducción de palabras españolas al inglés y viceversa. Había siempre huecos<br />
escurridizos en las traducciones. Había algo que se perdía y algo extra. En ambas<br />
lenguas había palabras sin equivalente. El diccionario daba equivalentes, cuando<br />
en realidad se trataba de aproximaciones pobres. Una palabra quería decir cinco<br />
cosas diferentes en una lengua, pero no quería decir la mitad de esas palabras en<br />
la otra, sino que por el contrario significaba un conjunto de palabras diferentes. Las<br />
palabras se perdían en otras palabras, formando constelaciones que cambiaban<br />
continuamente. Y luego no podía oler del todo a las palabras inglesas, no podía del<br />
todo degustar su sabor, su ambiente emocional. Las palabras españolas siempre<br />
me sonaban mejor. Mi relación con el inglés era diferente. Era aprendida, no me<br />
pertenecía del todo, carecía de la textura de años de experiencia, la textura de un<br />
diccionario altamente subjetivo, aunque me encantaba escuchar a Mary Jane.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Victor Terán<br />
Luna<br />
Traducido del zapoteco por el autor<br />
Luna. Blanca luna preciosa<br />
como el brillo de los ojos del cazador infortunado<br />
que avizora un conejo en el monte.<br />
Luna cáscara vaciada y enmohecida del cachimbo. 1<br />
Luna vientre preñada.<br />
Luna delirante<br />
como el coladero que sueña ser colmado de agua.<br />
Luna huevo malogrado.<br />
Luna fruto maduro del gomero:<br />
regálame un pedazo de tu júbilo<br />
para refrescar la vida de mi pueblo.<br />
Luna huipil 2 de ceremonias<br />
que engalana la cabeza de las zapotecas:<br />
regálame las luciérnagas que habitan en tu corazón<br />
para alumbrar los caminos de mi gente.<br />
Luna intacta, luna llena.<br />
Luna que goza riendo a carcajadas<br />
y golpeando las nalgas con las palmas de la mano.<br />
PALABRAS ... DESCUBIERTO EN TRADUCCIÓN 39<br />
1. Cachimbo: árbol americano cuyo fruto redondo y cascarudo proporciona<br />
alimento a los pájaros y a los niños campesinos.<br />
2. Huipil: Camisa suelta de mujer, sin mangas y adornada con vistosos bordados,<br />
generalmente usada por la poblacíon indígena de las Américas.
40<br />
WiPC<br />
50<br />
WORDS ... WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Matt Turner<br />
1990: Aung San Suu Kyi<br />
Volunteer opportunity: beautiful but oppressed country requires<br />
courageous figurehead to stand against murderous military<br />
despot. An inspirational motivator, your key responsibilities<br />
include: lifelong self-sacrifice, promoting democracy and non-<br />
violent resistance (despite intense provocation). Must be willing<br />
to work long hours (mainly from home). No holiday entitlement.<br />
Positive outlook essential. Apply within.<br />
Political opposition leader, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate and author<br />
Aung San Suu Kyi was elected Burma’s Prime Minister in 1990,<br />
a result negated by the ruling military junta. She has been<br />
under house arrest for fourteen of the past twenty years.<br />
See: ‘Because Writers Speak Their Minds’, the fiftieth-anniversary<br />
campaign of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s Writers in Prison Committee;<br />
www.internationalpen.org.uk and http://26-50.tumblr.com.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Casey Merkin<br />
Excerpt from the novel<br />
The Crimes of Paris<br />
WORDS ... CASEY MERKIN 41<br />
The Crimes of Paris is a darkly comic anti-travelogue and histoire de la déception<br />
amoureuse. The opening section, ‘Les chroniques de Bruce’ , from which this excerpt<br />
is taken, follows the experiences of the narrator, Casey, with his ‘sometimes fictitious<br />
French roommate’ , Bruce (whose influence is felt in the casual use of French<br />
vocabulary and typographical style throughout the novel). Casey has recently<br />
landed in Paris after a so-called divorce in Los Angeles.<br />
Café Philosophique: The Institution of Marriage<br />
One of the great advantages of my new apartment is that it’s only a five-minute<br />
walk to the Canal Saint-Martin. Paid for in wine by Napoléon and built to bring<br />
fresh water and goods into the city, the canal now supplies the 19e, 11e and 10e<br />
arrondissements with a wash of young guitar players and elderly winos. From<br />
the Bassin de la Villette to the rue du Faubourg du Temple (whence it continues<br />
underground all the way to the Porte de l’Arsenal, just below the Bastille), the<br />
bords du canal are a popular pique-nique destination and a home away from<br />
homelessness for the hundreds of sans abris who have taken up residence there<br />
in tents.<br />
To kill time before meeting up with some people at a club upstream, B. E. and<br />
I are sitting over a couple of demis at Chez Prune, a café branché located along the<br />
canal in a bobo section of the 10e. For the past half hour, he’s been telling me about<br />
his attempts to get some trim in Paris, and how they have all ended in failure.<br />
But with a frustrated shake of his head, he changes the topic :<br />
–So how’s life with Bruce ? You know, it’s never too late to look for a place<br />
together.<br />
–Yeah, I moan, and go through all that shit you have to do here to get a legit<br />
place ?<br />
–It’s not that big a deal …<br />
–The paperwork, the agents, the intense scrutiny of your bank history –<br />
which, incidentally, I don’t even have in France –, finding a guarantor willing<br />
to cover a year’s worth of rent … If I at least had a visa, that would be one thing.<br />
Besides, I told you : I don’t want to live with another American.<br />
B. E. has been in France for a few months already on a student visa. (I should<br />
mention that « B. E. » is not really his name. For years now, he’s been using his<br />
initials as a nom de plume, a literary affectation I find hilarious. Since my arrival,<br />
I’ve been adding to the ostentation by encouraging everyone we know to call him<br />
« B. E. », and it’s actually become an identity he begrudgingly embraces.) B. E.’s<br />
master plan was to get into the country by taking a course at the Sorbonne, make
42<br />
WORDS ... CASEY MERKIN<br />
some contacts, land a job and then secure a more permanent visa. Either that or<br />
meet a French girl and get pacsé. So far, though, he’s mostly met foreign students<br />
and Americans.<br />
–What do you and Bruce do, anyway ? he asks. I mean, what do you talk about ?<br />
The truth is, I tell him, we don’t talk about much. There’s not a lot of partying<br />
chez nous. We generally watch at least one horrible movie per night, usually during<br />
and after dinner. Bruce has been educating me on classics from the seventies such<br />
as Les Bronzés and the work of Franck Dubosc (including Les Petites annonces and<br />
Camping), as well as modern cinematic masterpieces like Brice de Nice (yes, thank<br />
you, I’ve already made that joke). If Bruce is out, I might have some people over for<br />
dinner. But otherwise, our only guests are our pieds-noirs neighbors and Vincent,<br />
a friend of Bruce’s who stops by on Wednesdays after his Yammani-ryū class to<br />
watch bo staff martial arts videos. So far, though, it is a comfortable arrangement.<br />
If I don’t want the company, I just go to my room. (The same cannot be said of<br />
Bruce.)<br />
–Well, if you don’t want to live with me, I guess you’re doomed to life with<br />
a meathead.<br />
–He’s not a meathead. He’s just … spécial, as the French say. In a way, we have<br />
a lot in common.<br />
–You both idolize Arnold Schwarzenegger ?<br />
–We’re both divorced, and–<br />
–For fuck sake, will you please stop saying that ?<br />
–What ?<br />
–You’re not divorced. You were never married !<br />
–Not in the strictest sense, no. But I lived with Madeleine for four years.<br />
So breaking up was like a divorce. What’s the difference ?<br />
–It’s not the same, B. E. insists.<br />
–Lot of marriages don’t even last that long.<br />
–It’s still not the same. There’s a psychological difference. You were never<br />
married, so it’s still just another « New York divorce ».<br />
–We lived in L. A.<br />
–You know what I mean.<br />
–Listen, for all intents and purposes, we lived together as man and wife.<br />
We shared a bedroom and car payments, split the groceries and ate together<br />
every night. She sat and peed while I brushed my teeth in the morning, I sat and<br />
yawned while she watched television at night. What does it matter that we didn’t<br />
take part in the atavistic rituals of a religion neither of us practices ? Or have the<br />
state sanction our union with a piece of paper and a tax penalty ? So what if we<br />
didn’t spend an ungodly sum of money to announce to the world that we loved<br />
each other, or make a grand public statement to our family and friends about our<br />
supposed promise to die together ? The only difference is that we didn’t buy into<br />
an outmoded social institution in which two people lay a claim to owning each<br />
other. That’s all just the abracadabra of marriage.<br />
–Precisely, says B. E. That’s how it works. It’s like voodoo. Once you believe in<br />
it, the spell’s been cast. And breaking it is a psychically traumatic process with all<br />
kinds of unexpected repercussions. You never had that, and so you can’t call it a<br />
divorce.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... CASEY MERKIN 43<br />
–Semantics !<br />
–Anyway, says B. E. dismissively. Explain to me again why you didn’t just marry<br />
Maddy … She’s beautiful, brilliant, accomplished. I never saw you two fight, you<br />
always seemed happy with her. So what the fuck are you doing here ?<br />
That’s a funny question coming from B. E., considering he was the one who<br />
convinced me that I could use a change of continents. But now that we’ve had it<br />
out a little bit and B. E. has focused us on the heart of the matter, we take a brief<br />
pause to refresh ourselves with couple of long pulls of bière blonde.<br />
–Because, I continue, marriage is an unreasonable proposition. A promise made<br />
without any knowledge of what’s to come. It’s like a credit card contract – which<br />
is itself an oxymoron. You can’t have a contract where each party can change the<br />
terms of the agreement at any point without the other’s knowledge.<br />
–Yeah, yeah, B. E. agrees half-heartedly, your beloved can always get fat or grow<br />
boring, but–<br />
–It is a promise based on nothing. A promise made blindly.<br />
–Some would call that promise an act of faith, says B. E.<br />
–Bad – faith, I shoot back. La mauvaise foi … It’s a perfect example of salvation<br />
mentality.<br />
–What’s that supposed to mean ?<br />
–People have this expectation that once you’re married, the job is done.<br />
They’re saved. That’s it, it’s over. This one relationship is going to be the perfect<br />
arrangement. As if there isn’t still more work to do, if only you can get across that<br />
finish line. That’s why people invest so much in it. It’s become a goal unto itself,<br />
whereas really it’s just another stage in a relationship, one that can go anywhere<br />
after that point. There’s a kind of religiosity to marriage.<br />
–Obviously, B. E. interjects. It’s supposed to be a sacred union, after all.<br />
–But I mean that people need marriage the way they need religion. They’re<br />
not strong enough to stand on their own without a story to back it all up. Both are<br />
crutches. Expecting everything to come from one relationship, just as expecting<br />
all good things in life to come from God, is an enormous shirking of responsibility.<br />
We’re all too willing to give up our independence. Do we really need to believe in<br />
a lie in order to function ?<br />
–Your argument is just a tad lopsided, Casey. You’re ignoring the fact that<br />
marriage means different things to different people. You can’t just generalize about<br />
everybody else’s expectations. Sometimes a marriage really does serve a purpose.<br />
–Sure, and arranged marriage also serves a purpose. If anything, the real<br />
foundation of marriage is laid bare there : sexual and economic rights over a<br />
woman or a man. Voilà, quoi ! The sad part is that Westerners pretend that our<br />
form of marriage is somehow fundamentally different. As though the process of<br />
selecting one love to the exclusion of all others is any less random than having a<br />
mate assigned to you.<br />
–You always have to be an extremist, don’t you ?<br />
–And yet as enormously as Americans believe in the system – we marry way<br />
more than Europeans – we divorce more than anyone in the world !<br />
–How odd, B. E. observes pensively after sipping his beer. You have this<br />
philosophical rejection of marriage, and yet you tell people all the time that you’re<br />
twice divorced.
44<br />
WORDS ... CASEY MERKIN<br />
And to this I offer a toast.<br />
–Divorce – , I can believe in! That’s real enough …<br />
–OK, fine. But what are you looking for that you haven’t already had ? What<br />
do you expect to find ? No relationship is perfect, you know. It’s like my uncle told<br />
me once : « Of course, I’ll always find a woman who is more attractive, or has more<br />
money, or is more talented than my wife. But I choose my wife. She is my wife. » …<br />
I mean, isn’t looking for something more than what you already have an illusion<br />
just as damaging as your rejection of marriage ?<br />
And for that I have no answer. Instead I pull out my mobile to check the time.<br />
–You want to get out of here ? I ask. B. E. nods and lets out a weary, already-hadone-demi-too-many<br />
sigh. After a brief battle of wills with a surly waiter intent on<br />
ignoring us, we pay our addition and stroll out into the damp air of an early March<br />
evening. Leaving the warm and lively atmosphere of the café makes the mild<br />
midwinter seem chillier than it really is. The lights are on along the canal, and we<br />
cross the street to reach the pavement that runs alongside the slow-flowing water.<br />
We walk in silence up the Quai de Valmy until we come to a turn in the street.<br />
A little further along, we start up an incline in the pavement, and the bank of the<br />
canal falls away on our right. Below, we spot a small camp of SDF (sans domicile<br />
fixe). The canal is lined with them in sections, and a few homeless men pass<br />
a bottle as they cook over a small fire. The air is acrid with the smell of burnt<br />
turpentine or plastic – they’re burning whatever scraps they can find in the street.<br />
On the other side of the lock, the water is once again up at our level, and we<br />
stop for a moment to examine something we spot on the surface : a baguette and<br />
a tampon floating bloatedly side by side in the water. For a brief instant, I love<br />
that Paris, this city famous for its beauty, should be flawed by so many such dirty<br />
details.<br />
B. E. dispels my moment of appreciation :<br />
–Have you ever considered that with concepts like this – marriage, nationalism,<br />
religion, family – that you tend to throw the baby out with the bathwater ? That<br />
because you can tear down the superstructure of the idea, you dispense with the<br />
foundations ?<br />
–Oh, come on. It’s not like you buy into that shit either.<br />
–No, I don’t, says B. E. But I don’t think I get quite as pissed off about it. I don’t<br />
get all Revivalist preacher about it the way you do.<br />
–I just know what I want, that’s all.<br />
At this, B. E. bursts out laughing.<br />
–Oh, really ?<br />
He’s laughing so hard he clutches his stomach and practically doubles over.<br />
–OK, no, I admit it. But I know what I don’t want.<br />
–Well, that’s as good a start any, I guess, says B. E.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases<br />
(Work in progress, 2010)
Sara Caba<br />
Le Temo<br />
PALABRAS ... SARA CABA 45<br />
Lo miro de reojo, con temor de que mi mirada inquisitiva lo despierte. Poco<br />
entiendo del modo en que funciona, a veces pienso que posee poderes secretos,<br />
que lee mi mente y se da cuenta del hueco que cargo en el corazón, y que por eso<br />
me mira con esos ojos como estrellas partidas que cuelgan con un brillo cegador<br />
del vacío. No parece ser una mirada de niño pequeño, pareciera más bien ser la<br />
mirada de un ser que es consciente de que algo no anda bien, desde antes de<br />
haber nacido, quizás incluso desde la preconcepción. Se ha quedado dormido<br />
después de haber correteado por el parque. El parque, las caminatas, y los largos<br />
desplazamientos en bus nos han salvado la vida.<br />
Es un niño intenso, no solo a mí me ve con esos ojos estallados y firmes, ve<br />
al mundo del mismo modo, quizás desconfiado ya de todos y de todo. Se entretiene<br />
en un universo particular al que yo no estoy invitada ni quiero estarlo, mirando<br />
las flores, tocando su textura, inhalando sus esencias, contemplando los patos<br />
del estanque, tras los que no corre, como veo que hace el resto de los niños,<br />
sino que sólo los examina, se acerca lo suficiente como para poder aprehender<br />
sus rasgos, guardando distancias prudentes para evitar ser picoteado, parece<br />
también entender esto: el peligro y las distancias que nos protegen del daño.<br />
Yo me siento en una banca, lejana, tratando de capturar algo de la esencia de este<br />
ser al que no comprendo aunque yo misma haya creado. Desearía poder abrir un<br />
libro, sumergirme en las letras, abstraerme como solía hacerlo hasta hace poco<br />
menos de dos años, pero no me es posible, no me es posible tampoco unírmele<br />
y disfrutar la vida desde su enigmático planeta, entonces vivo en un limbo en<br />
que nada se define, todo es una membrana nebulosa en la que mi hijo y yo<br />
flotamos, él creciendo, yo callando. Somos como dos sombras que de vez en<br />
cuando se toman las manos, como una pareja de amantes sombríos que caminan<br />
por el parque con poco que decir.<br />
Cuando se cansa viene a mí, nunca yo a él, y estira sus pequeños brazos<br />
para que le coloque el abrigo. Es la señal de que su hora de juego ha terminado.<br />
Un escalofrío me recorre la espalda y se me eriza la piel, no entiendo el mecanismo<br />
de este diminuto ser, el modo en que decide y hace. Veo que los otros niños son<br />
distintos, no deciden por sí mismos, son las madres quienes se acercan a ellos, los<br />
abrazan, los plagan de besos, y son ellas las que levantan los bracitos de los niños<br />
juguetones y distraídos, y son ellas quienes deciden que es hora de marcharse.<br />
Mi hijo es como un pequeño robot autosuficiente, o un adulto triste atrapado en<br />
un cuerpo infante que viene a mí, alza sus brazos, comunica fin. Le pongo el abrigo<br />
de ositos de colores, le coloco el gorrito como para hacer una gracia pero él se lo<br />
retira, con un gesto seco y duro, quizás copiando el modo en que yo misma le he
46<br />
PALABRAS ... SARA CABA<br />
colocado el abrigo segundos atrás. Miradas huecas se encuentran, y dos manos<br />
se juntan por inercia en un ángulo muy bajo, casi a ras de suelo.<br />
Nos montamos al bus, subimos al segundo piso atravesando grandes<br />
obstáculos. Soy la única madre que con alma descarriada se apresura para sentarse<br />
en el asiento frontal del segundo piso. Al niño parece gustarle también, es de los<br />
pocos momentos en que lo veo reír, y viéndolo trazar esa sonrisa que pareciera<br />
venir de un lugar que se conserva puro aún siento que lo quiero y que me quiero<br />
reír con él, pero entonces me ve y sus ojos explotados se apoderan de nuevo de su<br />
rostro, apagan las risas, y dos seres tristes emigran a sus mundos. El niño cae en un<br />
sueño profundo a los pocos minutos, sacude sus manitas con apuro, sus párpados<br />
que ahora cubren su inquietante mirada se mueven a intérvalos impredecibles,<br />
me pregunto si soñará y cómo soñará careciendo de tanto lenguaje. Conoce pocas<br />
palabras, mamá es una de ellas. Me pregunto si sueña con mamá, y cómo será<br />
mamá en sus sueños. Me pregunto si sueña con todo aquello que pareció disecar<br />
con sus ojos, si en sus fantasías puede tocar a los patos sin que lo dañen, y mamá<br />
es como las otras mamás.<br />
La gente dice que tiene mi boca, que tiene mis ojos, pero lo cierto es no que<br />
es así, no tiene nada de mí, sino que es poseedor de sus órganos propios, es una<br />
persona distinta a mí, un ser que no termino de entender, y entonces me doy<br />
cuenta de que le temo. Mientras el bus serpentea, y se suben y bajan diferentes<br />
personas que me miran extrañadas, me pregunto si le temo por no entenderlo<br />
o no lo entiendo porque le temo. Miro su perfil, su pequeñita nariz que de tan<br />
pequeña pareciera más la nariz de un perrito que la de un humano, observo su<br />
pecho diminuto que respira rítmicamente, y me cuesta creer que todo eso haya<br />
salido de mí. Nueve meses preguntándome cómo sería, y sobre todo, si lo querría.<br />
No te preocupes, al nacer te enamorarás, me decían las poquísimas personas a las<br />
que me atrevía a confesarles que no sentía nada, solo un estómago en aumento,<br />
unos pechos hinchados, una nausea persistente. Ya verás que te llegará, a veces<br />
toma un poco más de tiempo. Cuánto tiempo sería ese tiempo, me preguntaba<br />
mientras veía al niño que ahora empezaba a hacer como que se iba a despertar.<br />
Le toco la cabecita tibia y tersa tratando de mimarlo, de perpetuar ese sueño<br />
que nos trae paz a los dos, pero el roce de mi mano causa el efecto inverso, y antes<br />
de darme cuenta tengo la mirada de ese cóndor clavada en mí. Retiro la mano<br />
antes de permitirme que lo haga él, me la sostengo con la otra, me sudan ambas,<br />
el niño me mira sin tregua, le ruego que vuelva a dormir, no se inmuta, le imploro<br />
con desesperación, el silencio continúa siendo su respuesta, le digo que mamá<br />
necesita descansar, y un brillo cegador cubre su mirada mordaz, le digo entonces<br />
que es un niño malo y que no lo quiero. Gira la cabeza, sus ojos continúan brillando,<br />
diluyéndose en un horizonte que ya ha empezado a oscurecer.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Anzhelina Polonskaya<br />
Two Birds<br />
from Dalmatian Cycle<br />
Two birds on the grey, ashy sand.<br />
The sleeping bird is on the right; her feathers are dull<br />
and forgetting has prepared a place for her in the fallen leaves.<br />
The wind tears a feather from her wing, to write<br />
in the rain’s invisible ink the word umbra<br />
on one side and lumen on the other, over where<br />
the second bird cries over the dead one, opening its yellow beak.<br />
Sending you this picture, I only want to say<br />
that I can be both birds at once.<br />
Larissa Miller<br />
Intitulée<br />
Je n’ai qu’un seul tableau chez moi –<br />
C’est une image en cadre blanc:<br />
Le jour de juin, jardin charmant<br />
Dans ma fenêtre à claire-voie,<br />
… Et la maison, puis la bordure.<br />
Là où le peintre a oublié<br />
De mettre au clair sa signature; –<br />
Une herbe verte et délavée.<br />
WORDS ... ANZHELINA POLONSKAYA / LARISSA MILLER 47<br />
Translated from Russian by Andrew Wachtel<br />
Traduit du russe par Nikita Makarov
48<br />
WORDS ... AMRUTA PATIL<br />
Amruta Patil Seated Scribe<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... AMRUTA PATIL 49
50<br />
WiPC<br />
50<br />
WORDS ... WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
Nick Parker<br />
1997: Faraj Sarkoohi<br />
We do not like<br />
the words you choose.<br />
So, we have chosen<br />
some for you:<br />
I flew to Germany.<br />
I stayed for a month.<br />
I contacted no one.<br />
You are mistaken.<br />
Everything is normal.<br />
I am fine. I am fine.<br />
Isn’t that how you tell a story?<br />
Now. Come with us.<br />
Essayist and editor Faraj Sarkoohi was imprisoned by Iranian<br />
authorities under the Shah’s regime as well as under the Islamic<br />
Republic. A key figure in the anti-censorship movement that has<br />
seen many its writers die since the mid-1990s, he was tortured<br />
and threatened with execution before being released in 1998.<br />
He lives and works in Germany. See: ‘Because Writers Speak Their<br />
Minds’, the fiftieth-anniversary campaign of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s<br />
Writers in Prison Committee; www.internationalpen.org.uk<br />
and http://26-50.tumblr.com.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Abdelmajid Benjelloun<br />
Les yeux de Pessoa<br />
Pessoa s’efforçait<br />
de dévier systématiquement<br />
de tout ce que la vie lui offrait.<br />
Allons donc !<br />
Non, il marchait dans les rues<br />
le ciel<br />
dans les poches<br />
et le regard rivé<br />
sur l’amour !<br />
Sur l’amour seul.<br />
DES PAROLES ... ABDELMAJID BENJELLOUN<br />
51
52<br />
WORDS ... JOHN MATEER<br />
John Mateer<br />
Pessanha’s House, Lisbon<br />
Carlos, in his long black coat,<br />
stands at the end of the bar<br />
like a magi, listing the names<br />
of cities in Africa and Asia,<br />
giving his opinion on each.<br />
Ana Paula, historian and poet,<br />
with her big green maternal eyes,<br />
listens, her Luanda of last week<br />
vast as the Forbidden City.<br />
And Mónica, too, my Galician love,<br />
has in her heart, at very least,<br />
Torre de Hércules. While Miguel,<br />
the publisher, paces back and forth,<br />
planning, plotting … The first<br />
time I met Carlos was in Macau,<br />
outside the smoky Á-Mà Temple,<br />
he wore a black suit and walked us<br />
along the Inner Harbour to show<br />
the Wall of Dissimulation,<br />
Pessanha’s other home. In his essay<br />
on the poet’s house, it’s a chaotic museum;<br />
Chinese scrolls, statues, plates<br />
everywhere, except in the bedroom<br />
where Camilo sits, tearfully presenting<br />
his mother’s rosary. Carlos may be<br />
right: there are the starry conurbations<br />
of the departing world, and then,<br />
always, the kindly void of the Mother.<br />
Like this bar that, he says, he’s<br />
frequented over the decades,<br />
each time under a different name.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Walerian Domanski<br />
Smoke Factories<br />
WORDS ... WALERIAN DOMANSKI 53<br />
In 1955, I sat on the Regional Party Committee of the city of Kielce, as First Secretary<br />
for Economic Affairs. That summer was a hot one; the sky seemed aglow at all<br />
times. One day, my assistant informed me that the Secretariat of the Party Central<br />
Committee in Warsaw was convening an urgent conference, and that my presence<br />
would be required: I had only twelve hours until it began. I immediately informed<br />
my wife and sent for my driver, and for the rest of the day attended only to the<br />
most urgent problems on my desk.<br />
I arrived in Warsaw the following day, and checked into a room that had been<br />
reserved for me at the hotel where the Central Committee meeting was to take<br />
place. It had also been arranged that meals would be served in a special canteen.<br />
I met a few old friends who were also in attendance. We settled down at 10am<br />
for the beginning of the conference, which was led by Jakub Berman, a highranking<br />
member of the Polish Politburo who was known to have Stalin’s trust.<br />
He began the conference in typical fashion – but the topic of our meeting, it turned<br />
out, was not so typical.<br />
‘Comrades,’ Berman began, ‘I am very pleased to welcome you all. The theme<br />
of this conference is the prevention of unemployment.’<br />
Now, with the great achievement of communism came, supposedly, full<br />
employment. In communist Poland we could not refer to the ‘unemployed’, for in<br />
fact no one could be unemployed. Berman emphasised that we could not allow this<br />
chief principle of communism to be disrespected.<br />
Yet Polish production had shown a dangerous tendency to slow down, for<br />
various reasons – sites throughout the country had been informing us that the lack<br />
of materials and orders from abroad were preventing them from having anything<br />
to produce. Our trading partners, including the Soviet Union, China and other<br />
communist countries, were experiencing economic difficulties of their own, and<br />
cutting off orders, especially for consumer goods. We had full order books only for<br />
coal, steel, sulphur, freight cars, ships and military equipment. (The Soviet Union<br />
and China, evidently, were not slowing down defence spending.)<br />
The time had come, Berman exhorted us, to take drastic measures to maintain<br />
full employment. First we considered a transfer of workers from industry to<br />
agriculture, but agriculture was already overstaffed. We wondered if perhaps<br />
sending our workers to foreign countries on international contracts was the<br />
answer, but this idea was rejected as too risky, as workers there might either be<br />
recruited by Western intelligence services or defect entirely. Our Soviet comrades<br />
were also very likely to protest such a notion.<br />
No, we comrades concluded, the only way to solve this problem was to build
54<br />
WORDS ... WALERIAN DOMANSKI<br />
factories, which would be required to employ workers without the necessary<br />
hard-to-come-by materials for production. They would, moreover, need to operate<br />
at a low cost, without the need for skilled labour.<br />
Meeting such conditions naturally proved a daunting challenge, but finally<br />
one of the comrades from the Secretariat came up with a brilliant idea. ‘Build<br />
smoke factories,’ he said, by which he meant factories constructed for the purpose<br />
of producing nothing but … smoke!<br />
A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. Party activists were accustomed<br />
to controversial ideas from the Secretariat – but smoke factories? It was really<br />
an astonishing suggestion.<br />
‘Comrades, please be quiet!’ intoned Berman. ‘The use of these words is strictly<br />
confidential – for internal use only. In practice, we shall call these ‘smoke factories’<br />
something else. But for now the phrase reflects the essence of things. This idea<br />
can meet our requirements and produce a fast, cheap and simple solution to our<br />
problem. Most importantly, it will employ workers.<br />
‘I shall repeat once again: our objective is to employ, employ, employ. There is<br />
no other way! An unemployed worker easily becomes a class enemy. If worker does<br />
not work, he does not earn, and if he is not earning, he will be angry and vulnerable<br />
to propaganda from the West. We shall not proceed unless everyone here agrees.<br />
Of course, we need to fine-tune the technical details of “Codename: SMOKE”.’<br />
He continued: ‘The first, obvious question is: what kind of material will be used<br />
to produce the smoke? To that I answer: any material! Smoke can be produced<br />
from poor-quality, cheap coal, from waste wood, straw, hay, litter and so on. Local<br />
authorities will be able to decide for themselves what materials will, for them,<br />
be cheapest to burn, and most easily accessible. In the event of any shortage of<br />
materials, the factory can simply stop production, and no great economic loss will<br />
have been incurred. This is precisely the advantage of the “smoke factories” idea<br />
above all others!’<br />
It was concluded that even if the plants were to operate at only 50 percent<br />
efficiency, no crushing economic blow would result. Should a factory be required<br />
to close, the workers would be sent on forced leave, and paid 80 percent of their<br />
lost earnings. Interruptions in production would not pose any problem as with<br />
normal factories. In summertime, workers could be deployed to Agricultural<br />
Production Cooperatives in the countryside to harvest grain, potatoes and beets<br />
and work on water irrigation systems. But their main place of work was to be<br />
at the smoke factories.<br />
There remained the question of the transport of raw materials. Here again, this<br />
issue would be at the discretion of the local authorities. Transport could take place<br />
by rail, road, water and even horseback. It would cost, yes, but nothing was for free.<br />
We must give to get, we were reminded.<br />
‘Now I shall take your questions,’ Berman announced.<br />
One conference attendee asked: ‘What will happen when information leaks<br />
out about these factories to our enemies? What if it is announced on Radio Free<br />
Europe?’<br />
‘We have a solution to that,’ Berman said confidently. ‘These factories will<br />
be classified as military production. Strict secrecy will apply, under penalty of<br />
imprisonment. In addition, we must employ only trusted employees, Party<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... WALERIAN DOMANSKI 55<br />
members – especially the workers fuelling the furnaces as well as those involved<br />
in the actual production of the smoke. The other employees will not know how the<br />
materials are being used. Every factory will have an official security department to<br />
intimidate anyone who might be tempted to become talkative. Moreover, if they<br />
did talk, who would believe them in the West? It would seem incredible to them,<br />
the existence of smoke factories!’<br />
Another question was fielded: ‘What titles do we give the workers, and what<br />
will their wages be?’<br />
‘There will be no high wages,’ Berman replied. ‘Salaries will be only moderately<br />
better than the lowest-paid. As for titles? Whatever! Something persuasive can be<br />
easily invented – these are details for lower levels of government, Comrade.’<br />
‘How will we recruit employees, if wages are to be so low?’<br />
‘We expect a slowdown in economic growth in Poland, so the question of<br />
employment should pose no great difficulty. Smoke factories will be constructed<br />
only in areas at risk of unemployment.’<br />
‘What about the effect on the ecology?’ asked one forward-thinking comrade.<br />
Berman had an answer for this, too: ‘In military production, the environmental<br />
protection officials can say nothing. Military factories have a free hand in this<br />
regard. No one has any rights over them. Of course, should the wind, for example,<br />
blow too much smoke to neighbouring housing units, the factory will cease<br />
operation temporarily.’<br />
‘Who will give the orders for the construction of these factories? The Ministry<br />
of National Defence?’<br />
‘Yes, but only after recommendations from the Secretariat of the Party Central<br />
Committee, and after consultation with the Economic Planning Commission and<br />
other central economic institutions.’<br />
‘Will each province have a factory?’<br />
‘This will depend on the situation of the labour force in the region. Upper Silesia<br />
certainly will not need these factories, but eastern Poland will have the greatest<br />
number on account of low industrialisation there. Distribution will be determined<br />
by the Economic Planning Commission. But now, let us break for a two-hour lunch.’<br />
We made our way to the reserved canteen, where a lively discussion took place.<br />
I trusted very few comrades, so I seated myself at the far end of the room next to a<br />
reliable official from Lower Silesia whom I considered a friend. We had known each<br />
other since our days as Communist Party members and later guerrillas.<br />
‘Marian, what do you think of this idea?’ I asked.<br />
‘You know,’ he replied, ‘that we are not here to think, only to implement the<br />
recommendations of the Politburo or the Secretariat. I think … what the Party<br />
thinks!’<br />
‘I know,’ I replied. ‘But the idea is so shocking that the hair on my head is<br />
standing up. I feel like I am dreaming …’<br />
‘I am shocked too, Walerian,’ Marian confided. ‘Out of all the things I have heard,<br />
this idea is truly extraordinary.’<br />
‘Do you remember the policy of punishing workers in court for being five<br />
minutes late to work?’<br />
‘I do. It failed in practiced. Administrative costs were higher than the savings in<br />
production. Although that idea was not so stupid.’
56<br />
WORDS ... WALERIAN DOMANSKI<br />
I sighed. ‘What is happening in this country? So many workers achieving 200<br />
percent or even 300 percent of their production capacity, and still no goods in the<br />
stores?’<br />
Marian looked at me and grimaced. ‘It is bullshit, this “300 percent”. Mere<br />
propaganda. Production is interrupted independently of the workers, though in<br />
addition we employ many people who should not be employed: alcoholics, lazy<br />
people. The full employment principle is a hiccup in the economy.’<br />
‘Hence this crazy idea of smoke factories!’<br />
‘Quiet, please,’ Marian chided me. ‘From an ideological point of view, this is not<br />
a stupid idea. The October Revolution in Russia promised employment to everyone.<br />
The Manifesto from 22 July 1944 in Poland promised it too. Otherwise, what would<br />
the differences be between communism and capitalism?’<br />
‘Well, the differences are significant at the level of the lives of the common<br />
people. Fortunately, Poles cannot go abroad to compare standards of living.’<br />
‘Believe me, Walerian, many Poles prefer socialism; whether you work hard<br />
or not, your salary will be same.’<br />
‘Of course, without socialism in Poland, we would not be in power as<br />
Communist dignitaries …’<br />
‘True. But how long will socialism remain in Poland? I wonder.’<br />
‘As long as it persists in the Soviet Union! I do not like the Russians much,<br />
but it is in our interests to remain bound to them as long as we can.’<br />
‘Yes,’ I sighed, ‘but it’s costing Poland so much …’<br />
‘“Nothing is for free,” he quoted Berman. “We must give to get.”’<br />
We laughed and rejoined the conference, which was resuming. Detailed<br />
discussions ensued, and several ‘improvements’ to the plan were introduced.<br />
The gathering ended the following evening, and we all dispersed back to our<br />
respective provinces.<br />
My province was to build a total of seven smoke factories. From Marian I<br />
found out that five were built in Lower Silesia. How many were built throughout<br />
the entire country, I still do not know: the numbers were subject to military secrecy,<br />
to which the intimidated smoke-factory employees adhered. Wily old Berman,<br />
Stalin’s confidant, had been proved correct. Nor did news about the scheme leak<br />
to the West, and if it had, it would probably not have been believed.<br />
Had I not participated in the conference and later received hundreds of<br />
encrypted instructions concerning the construction and operation of smoke<br />
factories, I would not have believed it myself.<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
Contributors<br />
WORDS ... CONTRIBUTORS 57<br />
S. Y. Agnon est né en 1888 en Galicie (aujourd’hui Ukraine) de parents juifs religieux. Il vécut de longues<br />
années entre l’Europe et la Palestine, où il fi nit par s’établir jusqu’à sa mort en 1970. Empreinte d’un grand<br />
onirisme, son œuvre complexe plonge ses racines dans les textes bibliques, talmudiques et hassidiques et<br />
explore les multiples facettes de l’âme juive, religieuse et laïque, traditionaliste et moderne, dans une quête<br />
de perfection et d’absolu. Lauréat du prix Nobel de littérature en 1966, il est aujourd’hui un grand classique<br />
de la littérature hébraïque moderne.<br />
Abdelmajid Benjelloun est né en 1944 à Fès, Maroc. Il était professeur à la faculté de Droit à Rabat de<br />
1976–2005. Il travaille sur l’histoire du mouvement nationaliste marocain dans l’ex-Maroc espagnol depuis<br />
une quarantaine d’années, ayant soutenu une thèse de doctorat à la faculté de Droit de Casablanca, en<br />
1983. Il a publié six livres et plus de 200 articles sur le sujet. Il est écrivain, ayant à son actif quarante livres<br />
(histoire, poésie, aphorismes, nouvelles, romans, etc). Il est membre fondateur de la Maison de la Poésie au<br />
Maroc, et membre de l’Union des Écrivains du Maroc. Depuis 2009 il est Président du Centre Marocain du<br />
<strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong>. Il a produit, de 1999–2006, une émission culturelle hebdomadaire, Paroles d’esplanade,<br />
à la chaîne de radio nationale marocaine RTM Chaîne Inter, en français. Il est aussi peintre.<br />
Sujata Bhatt was born in Ahmedabad, India, and was raised in India and the US. She received her MFA<br />
from the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa, and later received the Commonwealth Poetry Prize<br />
and the Alice Hunt Bartlett Award for her fi rst collection, Brunizem (1988). She also received a Cholmondeley<br />
Award in 1991, and the Italian Tratti Poetry Prize in 2000. She has translated poetry from both Gujarati<br />
and German, and has been a Poet-in-Residence at the Poetry Archive, London. Her work has been widely<br />
anthologised, broadcast on radio and television and translated into more than twenty languages.<br />
Sara Caba nació en Costa Rica en 1977. Actualmente reside en Londres, donde llegó después de haber<br />
vivido en Copenhague, Boston, y Estocolmo. Ha colaborado con varios medios culturales de su país en crítica<br />
literaria y de cine, lleva un blog semanal en www.saracaba.com donde refl exiona sobre temas diversos, y<br />
está trabajando en la conclusión de su primera novela. Sus relatos breves han aparecido en publicaciones<br />
tales como The Barcelona Review y Narrativas. Combina la escritura con la enseñanza del español como<br />
lengua secundaria.<br />
Sylvestre Clancier, président du <strong>PEN</strong> club français, est natif du Limousin, berceau de sa famille. Il est<br />
l’auteur d’une vingtaine de recueils poétiques dont on retiendra notamment: Expansion du domaine de<br />
la bulle (2010), Généalogie du paysage (2008), L’Animal animé (1999), Profi l du songe (1971) et nombreux<br />
d’autres. Il a publié des essais sur la poésie et sur Freud, et un ouvrage de « politique-fi ction », Le Testament<br />
de Mao (1976). Après avoir été éditeur, il a enseigné dans les Universités Paris 13 et Paris 1 Panthéon<br />
Sorbonne, fondé l’Association des amis de Gaston-Miron et a été élu membre de la prestigieuse Académie<br />
Mallarmé. Il préside La Nouvelle Pléiade qui décerne chaque année le Grand Prix <strong>International</strong> de Poésie de<br />
langue française Léopold Sedar Senghor.<br />
Walerian Domanski was born in 1943 in Russia. In 1946, he accompanied his parents on their return<br />
to Poland, and the family settled in Lower Silesia. In 1967 he obtained an MA in structural civil engineering<br />
from Wroclaw University of Technology. In 1980 he became an activist in Poland’s Solidarity movement.<br />
In 1981 he was chosen as a delegate to the union’s fi rst national convention in Gdansk, and later served in<br />
the union’s leadership in Lower Silesia. He was jailed, and following an amnesty in 1986 he left Poland for<br />
the US. In 1969 he wrote a story about his experience as a junior football player, eventually won Second<br />
Prize in a contest sponsored by a literary magazine in Wroclaw. In 1975 he published another humorous<br />
story, ‘Fish’, in a trade magazine for the Polish publishing industry. Though he would become known as<br />
a cartoonist, his next literary effort came at the age of sixty-fi ve, with a collection of seventy (currently
58<br />
WORDS ... CONTRIBUTORS<br />
unpublished) stories about life in Communist Poland from 1945–80, which recount tales of ordinary<br />
people trying to adapt themselves to the absurdity of life in that era.<br />
Esther Heboyan is a Paris-based writer, translator, academic and mother. She was born in Istanbul in<br />
1955 to Armenian parents who emigrated fi rst to Germany, then to France. Later on, she herself moved to<br />
Great Britain, then to the United States. She holds an MA in journalism from the University of Iowa, Iowa<br />
City, and a PhD in American literature from the University of Sorbonne-Nouvelle, Paris. She has published<br />
a short story collection, Les Passagers d’Istanbul (Editions Parenthèses, 2006) and a volume of poetry, Les<br />
Rhododendrons (Editions Empreinte, 2009). Her English-language work has appeared in Ararat magazine,<br />
New York, and online at Armenian Poetry Project (http://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/). A second story<br />
collection, Comme un dimanche d’août à Burgaz, is due in 2011 from Editions Empreinte.<br />
Jamie Jauncey ayuda a la gente a encontrar su lugar en el mundo a través de la palabra escrita.<br />
Como escritor, instructor y coach, trabaja con empresas de todo tipo. Sus dos novelas más recientes,<br />
The Witness (2007) y The Reckoning (2009), fueron preseleccionadas para el premio Royal Mail de libros<br />
infantiles de Escocia. Jauncey fue presidente de la Sociedad de Autores de Escocia y en la actualidad es<br />
director del Festival Internacional del Libro de Edimburgo, el más grande del mundo. Su tío bisabuelo, R.<br />
B. Cunninghame Graham, fue presidente fundador de <strong>PEN</strong> Escocia. Jamie escribe semanalmente sobre<br />
lenguaje en su blog http://afewkindwords.blogspot.com<br />
for his collection of short stories The Good Times (1989). His recent novels include You Have to Be Careful in<br />
the Land of the Free (2004) and Kieron Smith, Boy ( 2009) which won the 2009 Scottish Arts Council/SMIT<br />
Book of the Year Award. His newest collection of short stories is titled If It Is Your Life (2010).<br />
Nikita Makarov est né à Dax dans le Sud-Ouest de la France en 1987. Bilingue, il a fait ses études<br />
en France et en Russie. Il terminait ses études supérieures à l’Institut littéraire de Gorky auprès de l’Union<br />
des écrivains russes à Moscou en 2009 en qualité de traducteur littéraire dans la section française.<br />
Son travail de fi n d’études concernait la traduction poétique en français de Lermontov, Le Novice.<br />
Il vit en France et en Russie.<br />
John Mateer was born in South Africa. He has published books and chapbooks of poems in South Africa,<br />
Australia, Indonesia, Japan, Macau and Portugal, as well as a prose travelogue on Indonesia. His latest<br />
publications include The West: Australian Poems 1989–2009, Ex-White/Einmal-Weiss: South African Poems<br />
(2009), a collection of poems on the vestiges of Portuguese empire, Southern Barbarians (2009) and, with<br />
Layli Rakhsha, English and Persian translations of his early Afrikaans poems. Recently he has been in China<br />
researching the work of the French archaeologist, novelist and poet Victor Segalen.<br />
Susana Medina es autora de Souvenirs del accidente, Cuentos rojos, Juguetes fi losófi cos, que es su<br />
primera novela en inglés, y del corto cinematográfi co Los Juguetes fi losófi cos de Buñuel, que se ha mostrado<br />
ampliamente en el Reino Unido. Escribe tanto en inglés como en español. Su tesis de doctorado Borgesland,<br />
un viaje textual por los espacios imaginarios en la obra de Jorge Luis Borges, es su primera incursión en el<br />
género de ensayo. Colabora con diversas publicaciones de arte y literarias, y enseña literatura hispánica<br />
en la Open University, Londres. Su obra multi-media se encuentra esparcida por internet. Ver www.<br />
susanamedina.net<br />
Pauline Melville was born in Guyana in 1948, and has worked as an actress in British fi lm and<br />
television. Her collection of short stories, Shape-shifter ( 1990), won the Commonwealth Writers Prize<br />
for Best First Book, the <strong>PEN</strong>/Macmillan Silver Pen Award and the Guardian Fiction Prize. Her fi rst novel,<br />
The Ventriloquist’s Tale (1997), was shortlisted for the Orange Prize and received the Whitbread Award<br />
for Best First Novel. Her most recent novel is Eating Air ( 2010).<br />
Casey Merkin is an American writer who left Paris in 2009 and is rumoured to currently reside<br />
in Alaska.<br />
Larissa Miller est née à Moscou en 1940. Elle est l’auteur de dix-huit livres de poésie et de prose,<br />
dont deux livres en langue anglaise. Son recueil poétique en deux langues Guests of Eternity ( 2008)<br />
a paru en Angleterre. Elle est membre du l’Union des écrivains russes depuis 1979 et ainsi que du<br />
centre russe du <strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> depuis 1991. Elle vit à Moscou. Pour plus d’informations consultez<br />
www.larisamiller.ru<br />
Donato Ndongo-Bidyogo nació en Niefang, Guinea Ecuatorial, en 1950. Escritor y periodista, fue<br />
director adjunto del Centro Cultural Hispano-Guineano de Malabo (la capital de su país), y director del<br />
Centro de Estudios Africanos en la Universidad de Murcia, España, donde reside desde hace varios años<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases
WORDS ... CONTRIBUTORS<br />
por su oposición a la dictadura. También fue delegado de la agencia de noticias española EFE en África<br />
central, y profesor visitante en la Universidad de Missouri – Columbia (Estados Unidos). Su Antología<br />
de la literatura guineana (1984) es considerada por la crítica internacional como la obra fundadora de la<br />
literatura escrita en Guinea Ecuatorial. Además de relatos cortos, ha publicado libros de historia (Historia<br />
y tragedia de Guinea Ecuatorial [1977], España en Guinea [1998]) y las novelas Las tinieblas de tu memoria<br />
negra (1987), Los poderes de la tempestad (1997) y El Metro (2007), que le han situado como uno de los<br />
escritores africanos más sobresalientes del momento.<br />
Patrice Nganang est un auteur camerounais qui est né en 1970. Il est romancier, essayiste et poète.<br />
Ses œuvres sont traduits en plusieurs langues. Son dernier roman, Mont Plaisant, a été publié par Phebus<br />
en 2010.<br />
Tamara O’Brien taught English at Adam Mickiewicz University in 1984 and subsequently, after a<br />
long and winding road that took in a bookshop and two Councils (Camden and The British), became a<br />
copywriter. She now enjoys creating perfect worlds with words. Her website is at www.tamaracopy.com<br />
Nick Parker lives on the outskirts of town. By day he’s a creative director of the language consultancy<br />
The Writer. By night he writes very short stories, very slowly. His fi rst collection, The Exploding Boy and<br />
Other Tiny Tales, is due out in summer 2010. Drop him a line at spigmite@gmail.com<br />
Amruta Patil is a writer and artist whose work aims to seamlessly blend text and image.<br />
She is the author of a graphic novel, Kari, and co-editor of Mindfi elds, a magazine about ideas and<br />
alternative education. She has an abiding love for mythology and history and a growing interest in<br />
sustainable living. She is currently working on a graphic novel based on the Mahabharata. Her website<br />
is at www.amrutapatil.com<br />
Franco Pesce está iniciándose como escritor y traductor (según él, dos labores casi iguales). Nacido<br />
en Santiago de Chile, vive actualmente en Londres, ciudad que dejará pronto para comenzar en la<br />
Universidad de Cambridge un doctorado en literatura hispanoamericana. Escribe en http://frangopeixe.<br />
wordpress.com y lee correos en fpesce@puc.cl<br />
Anzhelina Polonskaya was born in Malakhovka, near Moscow, in 1969. Since 1998 she has been<br />
a member of the Moscow Union of Writers and, in 2003, became a member of Russian <strong>PEN</strong>. In 2004 her<br />
book A Voice was published in English by Northwestern University Press as part of its acclaimed series<br />
‘Writings from an Unbound Europe’ and shortlisted for the 2005 Corneliu M. Popescu Prize for European<br />
Poetry in Translation as well as for the American Association of Teachers of Slavic and East European<br />
Languages’ prize for literature in translation.<br />
Rita Sabah a obtenu son diplômée de l’Université de Ramat-Aviv (Israël) en 1983. Elle traduit de<br />
l’anglais et de l’hébreu plusieurs essais et pièces de théâtre. Également journaliste, elle collabore<br />
régulièrement avec Le Monde Diplomatique. En 1999, sa nouvelle intitulée « Dans le mellah de Meknès »<br />
a été publiée dans la Revue d’études palestiniennes.<br />
<strong>Olive</strong> <strong>Senior</strong> is one of the Caribbean’s most internationally recognized and acclaimed writers and<br />
has also won recognition in her adopted country of Canada. Among her many awards and honours she<br />
has won the Commonwealth Writers Prize and F.G. Bressani Literary Prize, was nominated for Canada’s<br />
Governor-General’s Literary Award and was runner-up for the Casa de Las Americas Prize and the Pat<br />
Lowther Award. She is also the awardee of a rare Gold Medal from the Institute of Jamaica. Her body<br />
of published work includes four books of poetry, three collections of short stories and several awardwinning<br />
non-fi ction works on Caribbean culture including The Encyclopedia of Jamaican Heritage.<br />
Ed Sowerby is a professional copywriter based in London who has written for all sorts of businesses<br />
and brands over the years, from Nike and Guinness to Greenpeace, the National Gallery and The Climate<br />
Group. He fi rst cut his quill at The Writer, where he won two Communicators in Business awards.<br />
Since then he’s been brand language manager at Orange, and is now senior copywriter at the creative<br />
consultancy Figtree. When he’s not writing, he is a keen goalkeeper, an impatient fi sherman and a<br />
terrible cook. He can be contacted at edsowerby@gmail.com<br />
Víctor Terán nació en Juchitán de Zaragoza, Oaxaca, en 1958. Es profesor de enseñanza media.<br />
Su obra ha sido publicada en muchas revistas y antologías internacionales. En 1993, 1998 y 2005, recibió<br />
la beca del Fondo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes para Escritores en Lenguas Indígenas, con las<br />
cuales escribió las obras Yuuba’ xtí’ Guendarusaana (El dolor del abandono, 1995), Xpacaanda’ Cha’ba’<br />
(El Sueño del Flojo, 2000), y la obra inédita Diidxa’ ndahui naquite (Relatos breves de humor). También<br />
59
60<br />
WiPC 50 Years, 50 Cases<br />
WORDS ... CONTRIBUTORS<br />
tiene publicados los libros de poesía Sica ti Gubidxa Cubi (Como un sol nuevo, 1994), Ca Guichi Xtí’<br />
Guendaranaxhii (Las Las Espinas del Amor, Amor 2003), y el libro de cuentos Ti gunaa qui runa (Una mujer necia,<br />
2006). De 1999 a 2003 fue asesor y miembro del jurado dictaminador de las becas del Programa de Apoyo<br />
para Escritores en Lenguas Indígenas del FONCA. Es maestro, ha recorrido México y el Reino Unido leyendo<br />
su obra literaria, y actualmente labora en la Jefatura de Sector 03 de Escuelas Secundarias Técnicas del<br />
Istmo oaxaqueño.<br />
Matt Turner has been a copywriter for over fi fteen years, writing for the business, consumer<br />
and public sectors. He is also an experienced project manager and tone-of-voice consultant, and a<br />
co-founder of Writers Ltd, a leading copywriting company with offi ces in UK, Paris and Sydney.<br />
For more information, visit www.writers.uk.net<br />
Elise Valmorbida is an Italian-Australian writer who runs the communications agency word-design<br />
and teaches creative writing at Central Saint Martins. Her published works include The Book<br />
of Happy Endings (2007), many short stories and three novels: Matilde Waltzing (1997), The TV President<br />
(2008) and The Winding Stick (2009). Honoured by the Edinburgh <strong>International</strong> Film Festival as a<br />
Trailblazer, she is the script consultant and producer of award-winning indie feature fi lm Saxon, released<br />
to critical acclaim in 2009. She is a member of English <strong>PEN</strong> and the not-for-profi t writers’ association 26.<br />
She has worked closely with <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong> on the 26:50 project as well as the creation of a new brand<br />
identity. Her website is at www.word-design.co.uk/books<br />
Andrew Wachtel is Bertha and Max Dressler Professor in the Humanities at Northwestern University,<br />
where he also serves as dean of the Graduate School. His most recent published books are Russian<br />
Literature (co-authored with Ilya Vinitsky, 2009) and The Balkans in World History (2008). He is active as a<br />
translator from Russian, Slovene and Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian. His book-length translations of A Voice<br />
by Anzhelina Polonskaya and The Prophecy and Other Stories by Drago Jancar were published in 2006 and<br />
2009 respectively. He is currently working on a research project on wine and globalisation<br />
in the Balkan and Black Sea regions.
WORDS ...<br />
<strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong><br />
Brownlow House, 50/51 High Holborn, London WC1V 6ER, United Kingdom<br />
Tel: +44 (0) 20 7405 0338<br />
Fax: +44 (0) 20 7405 0339<br />
E-mail: info@internationalpen.org.uk<br />
Website: www.internationalpen.org.uk<br />
Presidents Emeritus: Homero Aridjis; Ronald Harwood CBE; Francis King CBE;<br />
György Konrád; Mario Vargas Llosa; Per Wästberg<br />
Vice Presidents: Margaret Atwood; Niels Barford; Andrei Bitov; Alexandre Blokh;<br />
Sook-Hee Chun; J. M. Coetzee; Georges Emmanuel Clancier; Moris Farhi MBE; Gloria<br />
Guardia; Nadine Gordimer; Nancy Ing; Lucina Kathmann; Kata Kulavkova; Joanne Leedom-<br />
Ackerman; Predrag Matvejevic; Toni Morrison; Boris A. Novak; Antonio Olinto; Michael<br />
Scammell; Thomas von Vegesack<br />
Board: John Ralston Saul (<strong>International</strong> President); Eugene Schoulgin (<strong>International</strong><br />
Secretary); Eric Lax (<strong>International</strong> Treasurer); Markéta Hejkalová; Michael Butscher;<br />
Takeaki Hori; Yang Lian; Mohamed Magani; Kristin T. Schnider; Haroon Siddiqui<br />
<strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong> staff:<br />
Interim Executive Directors Sara Whyatt and Frank Geary<br />
Finance Manager Anthony Archer<br />
Communications Director Emily Bromfield<br />
Bookkeeper and Administrative Assistant Sandrine Fameni<br />
Interns Rebecca Hammond, Nick Chapman, Kate Joseph, Makila Nsika<br />
Writers in Prison Committee Programme Director Sara Whyatt<br />
Africa/America Researcher Tamsin Mitchell<br />
Asia/MENA Researcher Cathy McCann<br />
Research and Campaign Assistant Patricia Díaz<br />
<strong>International</strong> Programmes Director Frank Geary<br />
<strong>International</strong> Programmes Assistant Ana Fletcher<br />
Literary Events Director Kate Griffin<br />
Registered Charity No. 1117088. For details of how to support <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>,<br />
please contact the offi ce on +44 (0)20 7405 0338 or info@internationalpen.org.uk<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE<br />
OF INTERNATIONAL <strong>PEN</strong><br />
50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
‘BECAUSE WRITERS SPEAK THEIR MINDS’<br />
Visit www.internationalpen.org.uk for details.
WiPC<br />
50<br />
WRITERS IN PRISON COMMITTEE 50 TH ANNIVERSARY<br />
2010: The Unnamed Writer<br />
by Elise Valmorbida<br />
Here is a mind<br />
caught in the elision<br />
between personal, political.<br />
Here is a nib<br />
charged with invisible ink<br />
that under iron heat<br />
turns blood-brown.<br />
Here is a silence.<br />
(Death happens in brackets)<br />
but still you can hear<br />
the bell of the voice,<br />
chiming, tolling,<br />
the scratching of the pen.<br />
See: ‘Because Writers Speak Their Minds’, the fiftieth-anniversary<br />
campaign of <strong>International</strong> <strong>PEN</strong>’s Writers in Prison Committee;<br />
www.internationalpen.org.uk and http://26-50.tumblr.com.<br />
IN THIS ISSUE: ED SOWERBY / MICHELA WRONG / SYLVESTRE CLANCIER<br />
/ JAMES KELMAN / SUJATA BHATT / JAMIE JAUNCEY / PAULINE MELVILLE<br />
/ PATRICE NGANANG / OLIVE SENIOR / DONATO NDONGO-BIDYOGO<br />
/ ESTHER HEBOYAN / TAMARA O’BRIEN / S. Y. AGNON•RITA SABAH<br />
/ SUSANA MEDINA / NAWAL EL SAADAWI•MONA HELMY / VICTOR<br />
TERÁN / MATT TURNER / CASEY MERKIN / SARA CABA / ANZHELINA<br />
POLONSKAYA / LARISSA MILLER / RAFIK SCHAMI / AMRUTA PATIL / LUCIO<br />
LAMI / MARGARET BUSBY•OLIVE SENIOR•JAMES KELMAN•MAYA JAGGI<br />
/ NICK PARKER / CHRISTOPHER L. SILZER / JOHN MATEER / ABDELMAJID<br />
BENJELLOUN / WALERIAN DOMANSKI / ELISE VALMORBIDA<br />
<strong>PEN</strong> <strong>International</strong> is online at www.internationalpen.org.uk