101 Detectives

by Ivan Vladislavic

  A few months later, Lister began opening the dead letters. Reading these messages from the past and taking them back to the people who wrote them has become his admittedly quixotic mission. He has made several journeys in search of the far-flung return addresses on the letters. The people who posted them, thirty years ago and more, are long gone, but the journeys are a distraction and photographing the places is consoling. Transcriptions of five of the dead letters are presented here. The original letters and Lister’s photographs of locations associated with them were exhibited in Kraków in 2011 (see ‘Dead Letter Gallery’).

  Fixing a chaotic moment is Lister’s ‘speciality’ as a photographer. He is known to his colleagues as ‘Mr Frosty’. In April 2009, he explained this nickname to a journalist: ‘The joke is that I’m known in the industry as the frozen-moment guy. You know, the moment when things teeter, when they hover and vibrate, just before the fall. Capturing it in the real world is no longer a job for a photographer. Anyone can freeze an instant digitally and tinker with it and thaw it out again… When it comes to these things, I’m like some old geezer who insists on writing with a pencil. I’m no Luddite, I appreciate the technology; it’s just not for me. I still want to stage it all, to set up something foolishly complicated and get it on film, hoping for a small, unlikely miracle.’

  Letter 1

  L. S. to Maryvonne, 1978, Paris (tr. from French)

  17, rue Boulard, 75014 PARISSeptember, 1978

  My dear Maryvonne,

  I worry about you! The news reaching us from S. Africa is not good. On Sunday when I came back from Jean-Richard in Auxerre I saw the most terrible thing on television. I was so upset I phoned J-R at once, although we had only just been together. To see a man doused with gasoline and burnt alive, and no one lifting a finger to prevent it, and all for being black. Or is it some other reason? You must write again and tell us what is happening, especially with you. J-R and everyone else in Auxerre are worried sick.

  Your last letter troubled me. What is the meaning of this fancy dress? I understand, I think, that you must go to dangerous places because of your work. I am the first to say that the research is important. But that you should go about in disguise, dressed as a man, as a black man, seems strange to me. Surely a minstrel costume is more likely to get you into trouble than to protect you? Who are you hiding from? And who are the comrades you mention? I believe that Orlando is in Soweto. I told J-R it makes me think of Orlando Furioso and he said he doubted very much they had heard of Ariosto where you are.

  You always tell me not to sound like a professor, but that’s who I am. And to me you will always be a student, even after your habilitation, please God! In any event, sounding like a professor is one of the few benefits of the job, so here goes. Picturing you with your face painted black (is this really what you do? – it seems so strange) I was reminded of the episode in Homer where Ulysses creeps into Troy disguised as a slave. Helen tells the story to Telemachus, who is looking for news of his father. Does it come back to you? No half measures for Ulysses: he beats himself black and blue, he takes the lash to his own back until the blood seeps through his filthy rags, he pounds bruises into his cheeks. Then he skulks through the streets of the enemy city. The disguise is a good one. Apart from Helen, who says nothing, not a soul recognises him.

  It’s a remarkable story, not so? But that’s enough of the Ancients. When I hear from you, I will write again to say what I mean by it. Please be careful. Perhaps you should think about coming back to Paris for the summer. Maude says you can stay with her. You will always have a home here.

  Your affectionate teacher and worried friend,

  [Signed] L. S.

  Letter 2

  M. Benadie to Basil, 1979, Laingsburg (tr. from Afrikaans)

  Oct 1979

  Dear Basil,

  How is life in the Golden City? I have phoned repeatedly, but no one answers.

  Last Thursday an alarming thing happened. You remember I said I would dig a fishpond in the backyard as soon as I moved in? Well, I finally started. A whole year has flown past because I am always busy in the shop. I had just started when Mrs Greyling from next door came and said I shouldn’t just dig holes like that. I said why, and she said well, certain things that cannot be named are buried in that yard and should rather be left undisturbed.

  I thought she was pulling my leg but she said no, it was serious, and she showed me the map you drew when you went to PE on holiday and she had to look after your (i.e. my) house. She said every X was a nameless thing that had to be pointed out if anything unpleasant ever happened to you, like an accident or a drowning, and she was left behind to take care of everything.

  Now there is a rockery that does not appear on your map. There is hardly room for a fishpond or a septic tank, which will also have to be rebuilt one of these fine days, another thing you should actually have drawn to my attention before I bought the house. In any case, please confirm that it is safe to dig here at the back or phone me rather (your old number) in the evening, because in this day and age it’s better to write nothing down.

  Please write back soon.

  Yours sincerely,

  M. Benadie

  Letter 3

  Karl-Heinz to Norman, 1977, Göttingen (orig. in English)

  Geiststrasse 7A

  3400 Göttingen

  Wed., April 13th ’77

  Dear Norman,

  Greetings from Göttingen! I hope this finds you well. I myself have settled in nicely here and am going on well with my work. As you can imagine, there are scholars galore to pore over Kant & Co., but very few with an interest in Netterberg. Indeed, my passion in this direction may be sui generis. It is all to the good: I am left to my own devices and getting ahead by dint of sheer provincialism.

  Some weeks ago at the Bahnhof, which is a splendid place dating from the heyday of the Railways, I saw something that would have amused you. An old man, a shabby fellow with a brown cordroy hat like a mushroom squashed down on his head, was causing a rumpus on the concourse where the schedules are displayed. He was wandering among the commuters, almost as though he were sedated, I would say, and declaring to no-one in particular, but very distinctly, in well-accented English – ‘I am the Brain Man of the World!’

  I am writing on a different matter though. Please don’t think me presumptuous, but when this question arose I immediately thought of consulting you. There is a story attached. My friend Adelheit recently took lodgings with a colleague from the University library. Arrangements of this kind are common here where space is at a premium. When she was cleaning the little refrigerator in her room, she came across a spool of film in the crisper. Apparently it is common practice to put film in the fridge to keep it ‘fresh’. Her colleague surmises that it was left behind by the previous occupant of the room, a young Argentine who departed suddenly last Autumn after some sort of scandal (she will only say ‘under a cloud’).

  The man at the lab tells us that the spool has been exposed. But my question to you is this: How long does film ‘keep’ in the refrigerator? This one has a date written on it which shows that it was taken twenty years ago. Do you think it likely that the pictures are still there? And if so, should one take special precautions with the developing? I hope you are not offended by my writing on such a mundane matter after so long an interval. You of all people will understand, I think, that we are intrigued to discover what is on the negatives and anxious not to spoil them. If they prove to be of interest, I would be happy to share them with you. What do you think?

  With my heart-felt thanks (very much in advance!) and warm wishes,

  Your old associate,

  [Signed] Karl-Heinz

  Letter 4

  D. Skinner to Gomes, c.1980, Amherst (orig. in English)

  Gomes –

  You are mistaken to suppose that I am one iota concerned about your ‘research’. My supervisor received your grubby little parcel of ‘proof’ and passed it on to me. I am returning it to y
ou with my compliments. Shout it from the rooftops, if you will, and let’s see whose good name is blackened. Do not bother me or my colleagues again. If you make any attempt to contact me, I will not hesitate to go to the Authorities, who know more about this matter and your part in it than you think.

  D. Skinner

  Letter 5

  Jimmy (James P.) to José, 1980, Queens (orig. in English)

  March 12th 80

  My dear José –

  Received this morning yours of the 8th from La Rochelle which is near Johannesburg I guess. These few lines may give you an idea of how time flew by and answer some of the questions you bombarded me with. Once more I repeat there was nothing untoward about the change in name. Try to see it as it is Brother. This is a new country where many people come to seize their opportunities. You see your world as it is, but remember that you and I have been moving in two different spheres. When long ago I attempted to get ‘nat. papers’ it was better to be ‘James’ than to be ‘Tiago’ of old. Remember that it was many years ago and the world was a different place. As it is I never did need any such paper since, whether to collect post or get a license or vote. When it comes to mind-their-own-business I am glad I reside in the US of A. As to the ‘P’ it is also a let us say ‘Brain-wave’. There are so many Jimmies here hence the P. It was also a sentimental tie to the time Uncle Pedro (‘Peter’) came to visit and Mother appointed me guardian over the same. I took a shine to the guy. We sat on a bench at the river eating wallnuts and bread looking at the ducks?! Hardly speaking!! Benvenuti is a semi-private rooming-house. The owners are from Trinidade and the boarders live up and over the first floor. That is my haunt but I am actually across the Expressway at the actual house, small as it is, with a place to myself in the basement. Underground! I have known them for quite a while and we get along. There are many people from the islands and more everyday. I dare say if I arrived in S. Ozone Park today I would still be Tiago and no problem and you would not say I must be embarrased about the family than which nothing is further from the Truth. I was sure pleased with the pictures you sent and to hear about Óbidos. I can still see the bougainvilia where Mother used to knit and exchange confidences (Mrs Rocha). Poor Óbidos. Mother and Father’s picture was wonderful but Oh boy it hurts. I have to mention being advised by the Bank of another ‘donation’. Are you sure you have enough for yourself. La Rochelle sounds grand but perhaps Johannesburg is not as dear as all that. I was worried for a while over your health in those parts! You should get you a set of teeth. I have a few left and some to pull. But you will be around for sometime yet! Pick a good place to eat and watch the girls go by. We have grill houses and ice cream parlors here to beat the band. The best Sundae is the ‘Screwball’s Delight’ but I like (you can imagine why) the one called a ‘Joe Sent Me’. Just thanks again for all you have done for me. Cheer up. The BEST is yet to come.

  Mar 16th The weather has kept me from the PO. You must by now have my last letter and picture. You will see that in spite of ‘James’ there is a Brotherly resemblance.

  I have held this letter for ever so long. Today is April 1st but no fooling! Received this morning your p.c. from Durban. You are restless as always! Are you away from ‘Joe-burg’ often? Make sure you get my last letter addressed to ‘La Rochelle’ it holds a v. precious picture which I am sure you will enjoy. Some of my letters did come back in the past. Keep looking for a wealthy widow with a nice house. We are still in Winter here. It is dragging on infinitely. Yours, Jimmy (alias James P.)!

  ‌The Reading

  Her reading voice was a soft-grained monotone that sifted through the open minds of the audience like sand from a clenched fist. They were practised listeners, mostly, lovers of literature and keen observers of political developments in the South, two hundred and fourteen of them according to the receipts at the door, gathered together in the Literaturhaus to hear the sorrowful story of Maryam Akello’s life. She read in her native Acholi, and except for her guardian, who sat in the middle of the front row, no one in the room understood a word. They could no longer recall if they had ever heard the language spoken in a seminar or on some documentary soundtrack. They were therefore in no position to judge whether she was reading badly or well, nor to ascertain which passages of Sugar she had chosen to present, and this knowledge would have to wait until the second part of the programme, when her translator would read the same passages from the German version just published by Kleinbach.

  That was the translator Hans Günther Basch on the podium, with his chair pushed back from the table and angled ever so slightly towards the lectern where she stood reading, his faceted crew cut tilted deferentially, deflecting the audience’s attention to her and capturing a modest portion of it for himself. Although he appeared to be listening, Basch’s thoughts were elsewhere. The fact is he too understood no Acholi. In preparing his German version, he had relied on the English and French editions already published and the commentary of a friend at the Goethe University in Frankfurt, an East Africa specialist. Akello herself spoke English well and they had discussed his translation in depth. He felt he knew his way around in her world. Now, as a dusty cloud of Acholi rose before his window on Africa, obscuring the landscape of the text, his thoughts returned to the introductory talk given by Prof. Horst Grundmann, another friend in the academic world, a fellow Africanist. There he was in the front row of the audience next to the writer’s guardian, with his long legs stretched out, his bearded chin on his chest, the shiny top of his head aglow.

  The two of them had served together for several years now on the board of the Literaturhaus. This evening’s reading was an important one, the first in a series by Writers under Fire, as they called it, writers threatened or restricted or silenced by oppressive states, or driven from their countries by conflict or persecution, like Maryam Akello. It had taken a great deal of time and effort to raise the money and win the backing of the city and the sponsors, and so this inaugural event was crucial. All in all, Horst had made a good job of the introduction, Hans Günther thought, he had spoken passionately about the need, in our post-9/11 world, to celebrate difference and support dialogue, to create networks of understanding and solidarity, reminding the audience of the many countries where, even now, writers were afraid to put their own names on their texts, let alone read from them in public, and choosing your words was still a matter of life and death. Basch, who had thought himself inured to such appeals, was stirred. Yes, he had to hand it to Horst, he had done a good job of it. It was a speech calculated to assure the funders that they had spent their money wisely and the audience that they had taken a small but meaningful stand against tyranny.

  With the exception of a young man towards the back of the room, who had come here with a new girlfriend to demonstrate the sincerity of his interest in her interests, every member of the audience had been to a literary reading before. A majority had been to a dozen readings or more, and a handful to hundreds. Among them, they had seen and heard thousands of writers read from their work. By the time Maryam Akello reached the bottom of the first page and peeled it over on the lectern, and while the less experienced listeners were still absorbing her tones and gestures, examining her clothes, her face and the complicated weave of her hairstyle, the old hands had already found a place for her on the shelf.

  In general, they found writers easier to classify than their books. For all the variation, from the studied sing-song of American poets and booming declamations of African praise singers to the weather-report burble of certain English novelists, they fell into two broad classes: those who were at ease on the stage and those who were not. Those who gestured and projected and gave their characters accents and mannerisms, and those who simply read in their own voices, as well as they could, until it was over.The performers and the rest. Yet it was not obvious who the crowd-pleasers would be. Melodrama was always an ill-judged grimace away and some of the whisperers and mumblers made you sit up and listen.

  Prompted by Akello’s floury
monotone, Prof. Steffi Ziegler was dwelling on these things. The professor, who lectured in twentieth-century American theatre at the University of Cologne, found herself thinking about Edward Sheldon, an all-but-forgotten playwright. She had been browsing lately through Eric Barnes’s biography of Sheldon, The Man Who Lived Twice, and a wisp of the story was still drifting in her mind.

  Like many lives touched by catastrophe, Sheldon’s fell open into two unequal chapters. In the first decade of the twentieth century, he had established himself, precociously, as one of the stars of the American theatre. His play Romance became the stage sensation of the war years, running for season after season on Broadway, touring everywhere, going on to record-breaking runs in London and Paris. But when he was still in his twenties, he was struck down by a virulent form of arthritis, which rendered him immobile. By 1925 he was bedridden; by 1930 he was blind.

  Sheldon spent the last twenty years of his life flat on his back in his Manhattan penthouse, unable to move a limb. Yet the remarkable thing is that he remained at the centre of the theatre world. Despite the severity of his affliction, he sustained friendships with hundreds of people, guiding marriages and careers, offering advice on life and work, amusing and inspiring everyone he knew. His generous, resilient spirit moved one friend to remark, ‘It would have been an impertinence to pity him.’

  Prof. Ziegler had written several papers on Sheldon’s troublesome plays, notably The Nigger and The Princess Zim-Zim, troublesome because, despite their audacity and charm, they were disfigured by the prejudices of his time. But these concerns belonged in her scholarly work. She was musing now on the question of reading aloud. After he went blind, one of Sheldon’s main pastimes was being read to. He slept little and fitfully, and every waking moment, night or day, when he was not receiving a visitor, was passed reading. Even his night nurses had to be accomplished readers and he had very specific requirements in this regard. He did not enjoy expressive reading at all. He favoured a blank monotone that allowed him to apply his own emphases, like tints on a black-and-white photograph, ‘as though he were receiving the words directly from the printed page’, as his biographer puts it. This he called the ‘sewing machine’ style of reading, a precise, regular tacking along the lines of type, seaming one imagination to another.