Found Life

by Linor Goralik

  as she heaves

  her way out of you.

  The only thing we need

  is her soul,

  her soul.

  Her eighteen fingers, six tongues, and eleven hemispheres.

  Unbelovèd,

  even if we ourselves had borne her,

  she would not have turned out half as cute.

  MW

  Dear, we saw with our own eyes

  How it approaches the shore, the regatta,

  The lustrous captain scintillating as

  The ropes thrum with fatigue.

  (The simple ropes)

  The oracle dissolved in a puff of white smoke,

  and now the landladies

  beat their hooves on the tympanum of the pier,

  full of the most gorgeous premonitions.

  So, the encounter will come to pass.

  Dear, we heard the ship’s horn.

  Didn’t we hear the horn?

  Heard it, no need to deny it.

  No, it wasn’t the swans’ cry,

  no, not the oak breaking a birch,

  no, not the chorus of maidens who

  sang at our behest on Ilmen’s Day—

  it was a horn, for real.

  (My God, so it was a horn!…)

  Well, so what now.

  (Daughters stitch up leaflets

  in poorly tailored skirts;

  their haste-pricked fingers leave

  small stains on the Party’s correspondence;

  dummies and nihilists,

  blind, gentle quail,

  inedible as seagulls.)

  On the gang-plank, trumpeting the leading note,

  in sweet anticipation,

  they froze,

  the young naturalists:

  awaiting diverting marine carrion.

  So it will come to pass, the encounter.

  Dear, we sensed it in our underfur,

  how the underwater sailors sing

  with white deep lips.

  (God, oh God, how the sailors sing!…)

  Would our lips have trembled sweetly

  in time with the basses of the sea-bottom’s battalion?

  We confess it: sweetly.

  (The psaltery player’s wife in Severodvinsk

  told him: “Don’t marry a dead woman”—

  staring into water, into tea.)

  And now, right up close to the water,

  we stand, prepared for deprivations,

  sensing behind our backs vending machines—

  with soda-pop, salt, methamphetamines,

  (A foretaste of sweet deprivations).

  So—there’ll be an encounter.

  My dear, why was your throat blocked?

  That sky, with its linen handkerchief,—

  the one that goes spinning, gets stuck again,—

  always itching to go on.

  The crowd is saying two young lady naturalists

  in their impatience swam beyond the mark—

  and now they’re sobbing, little fish:

  smooth the sea, waves empty-crested,

  the screw does not splash, nor the mast unlooming,—

  but on the farther shore, a point,

  a bloodless incision rising along the rails,

  like a little white smoke curling…

  …It’s true—a little white smoke curling!

  (My dear! We saw with our own eyes!)

  Ah, in the blind and many-crested blizzard,

  again the heart is burdened past assuaging

  the harpies spill out of their muzzles,

  the daughters nibble on their threads,

  and at the platform, a mischievous mutt

  suddenly freezes, remembering something…

  …And your presentiments, my darling?

  What about your presentiments, my darling?

  MW

  FOR MARIA STEPANOVA

  In the realm of bliss and quiet

  Under the warm currents’ murmur

  Time placidly, not unkindly

  Gnaws away our innards.

  It does not gobble brutishly

  But delectates each chunk,

  Picking out the tendons

  with a painstaking tongue.

  We knew it; we were waiting for it—

  It was not the fangs we feared,

  But the greasy metal plates

  And the trench’s soup-pots.

  Lucky us, oh lucky us,

  It doesn’t growl, it doesn’t gnash;

  It gently sprinkles lemon juice

  And crunches like good starch.

  The salt sparkles, the vat shines,

  And over the dripping wattle, it

  Lets down a good thread of spit,

  But the world gleams like a knife.

  MW

  After an hour, the soul puts down the pencil, asks for water,

  asks the body to light a lamp so she won’t knock about in the gloom,

  asks to sleep, but doesn’t sleep, looks at the sediment in the water,

  and at herself in a ring of approaching darkness.

  After two hours, the soul stops enumerating names,

  says: “Well then,”

  asks the body to open the window,

  and the body whispers, “But…”

  but the soul doesn’t hear,—stands up, puts down the pencil,

  puts on boots and an ammunition belt

  and walks towards the table. They’re serving her supper.

  The body stands over her silently as she washes her hands,

  gathers up sheets in a folder, forgets the signs,

  symbols, pencil, lamp, sons and wives.

  After three hours, the soul drinks up all the blood, polishes off the body,

  puts on her coat and goes to the threshold

  Where, at last, she and the body part ways

  And awkwardly sit down together, ‘one for the road.’

  The body is still sitting, but she’s already at the gate, at the far end of the path.

  MW

  FROM PETER, SET THE HOOK (2007)

  Death, back from the cemetery,

  Does not head for the kitchen and supper,

  Instead goes straight to bed,

  boots still on,

  And, defeated, falls fast asleep.

  You hold your fork poised in the air.

  It takes five or six seconds for the

  onslaught of annoyance

  To retreat in the face of appetite,—

  Like in the mornings, when she plops down on you

  And begins to squirm

  And kiss.

  EK

  Little sister says to Mommy, “Don’t touch me!”

  Big sis says to Mother, “Leave me be!”

  And on a day the calendar marks gray

  they both head to factories or fields

  and Lenin is young

  and the rose of October

  has barely bloomed.

  And do me a favor

  tell me ahead of time:

  when it so hellishly withers,—

  what will the Lord pick:

  Snow White offs Rose-Red

  or Rose-Red whacks Snow White?

  EK

  Quiet days in California

  And Vichy.

  Pétain drinks up his water to the cacophony

  Of cannons. The narcissus bloom in vain.

  This year spring wasn’t planned for at all.

  Quiet nights in California at the Motel “Niagara.”

  A young couple planning to hit the city.

  The bleach makes her head itch,

  he’s hurrying to finish a chapter.

  She draws the seam of a stocking

  On her leg with a black pencil,

  rubs cream

  along the pink crease

  of her hairline. Bad bleach.

  That blonde lay curled up in the middle of Paris,

  With red blotches on her bluish skin,

&nbs
p; Through the drawn-on stocking seam

  Two little hairs stuck out.

  Troops had seized all the nylon.

  He brushes the toe of her shoe with his boot.

  She shivers from the cold, collects the pencils in her bag,

  says to him, well, let’s go.

  He puts the story aside,

  Straps on his prosthesis

  And says to her: “Quiet Days in Vichy.”

  She says: “Huh?”

  EK

  So one of them says to the other:

  “I don’t want to work, I’m staying home.

  I won’t leave you, I can’t, I won’t do it.”

  But the other says, “Quit it, Alyosha

  (Or whoever you may turn into there—Sasha, Seryozha).

  Quit, don’t be a baby, this is just how it works.

  And why is this about you? This is just how it is.

  Just how it is—the weak don’t swim to shore,

  And this work never ends.

  Look, the water’s ebbing out from under us,

  Get ready or they’ll panic.

  And all in all I’m glad it happened,

  It’s just a shame we didn’t catch up more.

  I’m still blameless, which is nice.

  I’m still your brother, you lowlife,

  shithead, scumbag,—just joking, don’t worry.

  Get lost, Andrei (or is it Vova),

  get working, for your own sake and that of your neighbor.

  Mom’s hurting, don’t bother her, say goodbye already.”

  And neither air nor water will hide you.

  But one manages to cross himself,

  and the other to flip over,

  prepare,

  and pull himself together.

  EK

  He’s descending, and just then the other’s coming out, and they meet by the river,—

  Many-legged, its muddy waves dragging satchels, purses, parcels,

  discharging from its head onto Nativity Street, Resurrection,

  from its rear—into dead dark blind alleys.

  By now they both ought to have started—but they’re silent

  Looking at each other over a shoulder.

  Around, everything flows and trickles in its way, no one notices them,—

  Only the escalator attendant scents something,

  nervously fidgets, claws grazing the lever.

  It’s Friday, eight at night, subterranean heat, harrowed bodies,

  and in each others’ eyes they read of their own hangmen, saying: “I’ve come for you,”—

  and go pale, and lower their laureled brows,—

  and don’t look up again.

  The ceiling doesn’t fall in.

  The lights don’t blacken or start to fume.

  And then the escalator attendant shifts from hoof to hoof, slowly pulls the lever.

  The escalators slow.

  Those destined to exit collapse onto their brows.

  It remains night over Moscow, everything blackly dark.

  Those two gaze forward with eyes unseeing,—

  and Christ keeps silence,

  and Orpheus sings:

  “No, death has nothing for me.

  No, death has nothing for me.”

  GKS

  FROM BOOK OF QUOTES

  For some half-sleep is quite the same

  As cozy slippers, a steady state.

  Their breathing measured, dull their gaze,

  Gait smooth and voice tamed.

  I’m becoming one of these. It’s getting very easy

  To live, without thinking seriously,

  A little plush creature falling deep

  And waking in this half-sleep…

  EK

  Take this truth both glum and cruel

  To heart, remember and see:

  I would have been the utmost fool

  If this world had died with me

  EK

  It’s an evil and dreary reality

  But worth always keeping in mind:

  That I’d have to be queen of the dumbasses

  If this world, when I die, were to end…

  GKS

  Think “a lemon”—feel your cheek contract.

  Think of a knife, etching a line down a pane

  And hold back a spasm. When you meet a figure in the dark,

  Think: “assassin”—and shudder.

  As the blurred light of the

  leaden morning melts in the crucible of anguish,

  Think a bullet tearing through temple into the pillow;

  And cope with the chill. Then breathe. Get firmed up inside,

  Think: I’m dead. Now laugh. Then repeat.

  GKS

  Everything is glossy-coated, and, when you tire

  Of the continuing thought, that creaks like a joint,

  You shake your head, get up, walk to the window

  Feet sliding like jellyfish across the seafloor.

  Everything is glossy-coated. A cup squeezed in your fist,

  You draw it to your lips, so as not to shake out all

  The liquid, and feel with every gulp that

  Inside you’re streaked with gloss, gleaming like a bubble.

  Everything is glossy-coated, and your world is washed-out white,

  With these lusterless flecks…How did you get in here?

  Spit out the window, light up, catch your breath, pull the hammer,

  Heave the dumbbells, scream, and forget it, like any lesson.

  Everything is glossy-coated, and, finally, you go in

  Straight from lobby to street, scrubbed with rain,

  Turning back you see the edge of your own coat,

  As it flickers behind the lobby door, entering into nothing.

  GKS

  With the onset of twilight the brain starts to whine,

  The skin becomes sticky with things’ grayish haze,

  “Is” doesn’t seem right, nor does “to be,”

  Probably not “will be,” though actually that one’s close.

  A fantastical picture: a wide-open doorway,

  The darkish insides of rooms. Newspaper spew.

  If once “the two of us” lived here, its traces are gone,

  hidden behind stacks of “where are you? where are you?”

  GKS

  PAINTING

  That which seemed white

  By morning is thoroughly gray.

  The tower, like a parabellum,

  Presses against the morning’s thigh.

  The square, like a brimless hat,

  Bears down on its temples.

  The city, with its vast mitts,

  Tears him to bits.

  That which seemed black

  Nowadays changes hue.

  It seems riven,

  But guzzles up light.

  The dirty port is drawn

  In a greenish grayscale.

  The marketscape beyond the frame,

  Overstuffed—a still life.

  That which seemed deep blue—

  Sky, water, glass,

  Pigeons, air, crisp frost,—

  These days is whitest white.

  The brushes beat the palette’s chest

  Like waves upon the coast.

  The canvas—as a battlefield—

  Rosy through the snow.

  That which seemed red,

  All dried up, took on

  A brownish russet tint—it’s clear

  What happened to it here.

  Once a bit of moldering blind,

  The bind on the wrist is thick…

  Sheathed in rust-red crust now,

  The canvas bound in white.

  MW

  Sarcastically squinting, to glance, as the dog scuttles

  Around the table and draws up his nostrils noisily,

  Like he’s searching for tracks. Now I am acting wisely,

  Ceasing my vain fight. Behind the blinds, the fog

  Displeases m
e, but pleases God—thus

  Contends the Koran. The vernacular for my behavior

  Is “skedaddling,” or, in military terms,

  “Surrender.” I try not to think with the paper’s dry tongue,

  But to learn from the clever serfs: if the farmstead is conquered,

  It’s foolish to go join the partisans, whose greed will cost you dear.

  Better to keep to one’s work, let the soldiers be quartered

  And charge them an arm and a leg for boots and beer.

  I watch the falling of empires in my brain

  With ridiculous calm: the loss, a conclusion foregone;

  Occupation is easier. The dawn of alliances breaks.

  I try not to think, but simply run, run…

  MW

  Torn apart, grimy, depraved

  Petersburg—Petrograd—Leningrad…

  Duped and defrauded—unslain,—

  How d’you like hell, my beloved?

  Death in the entryway, the alleyways, envelope,

  On the bridge, in the snow, on the shoulder…

  My love, are the devils daubed on dyed

  Swaths of scarlet scarier?

  A black puddle spreads

  Across the leather coat, the throat, the coffin.

  My love, does the hoarfrost overly

  Chill your shame-marked forehead?

  Do the horned shadows succumb

  To that heavy and sharkskin charm,

  My love, stamped down and beaten,

  Commander, captain, commissar?

  Like a chalice alive and steaming,

  Two icicles between deathly centuries

  My love, spit up that blood for me,—

  Never again will I see it!—

  How does it look—ineradicable

  Beelzebub—Belial—Demiurge?—

  My beloved, beloved, beloved

  Leningrad—Petrograd—Petersburg?

  MW

  PART VI

  INTERVIEW

  “EVERYONE READS THE TEXT THAT’S IN THEIR OWN HEAD”

  An interview with Linor Goralik, conducted and translated by Olga Breininger

  OB: Linor, imagine that none of your texts has yet been translated. Which would you choose to be translated first?

  LG: There is this one book that I’d say is more precious to me than any other piece of prose I wrote. It’s called The Oral Folk Tradition of the Inhabitants of Sector M1. It’s a collection of folklore stemming from one of the sectors of hell. Wherever there are people, there is folklore, and these people, too, have their own folk tradition, which has been collected by a man named Sergei Petrovsky, who by the way is the father of Agatha [of “Agatha Goes Home”—Eds.]; I have this complicated network of Petrovsky family relations in my head. At the beginning of the book Petrovsky explains a bit why he collects folklore—it’s because there’s this universal human need to collect. But Sergei doesn’t want to collect objects and finally settles on folklore. He doesn’t really understand what folklore is—he is, after all, an IT person, not a linguist—he just collects certain texts that seem like folklore to him. My friend and editor Mitya Kuzmin and I spent a while arguing about whether the book is prose (his opinion) or poetry (mine), and ultimately we published it as a book of God knows what. But I have no idea how you’d go about translating a book like that, how and into what language, for one thing because it’s all based on Russian folklore, but on the other hand it’s just, like, some crazy shit. But if there was some magical world where someone asked me, “What text of yours would you like most to see translated?” I would immediately say Sector M1.