by Yoko Tawada
“Oh, I see, it’s the dragon-slayer legend. What made you choose that? Well, I guess it is universal in a way.” When I talked to the editor on the phone I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t very interested. “Saint George rides up, kills the dragon, rescues the princess—isn’t that how it goes? There must be a contemporary twist, though, like the hero’s really a coward or there’s no dragon for him to slay. Or maybe it’s the fair damsel who does the fighting. That seems more likely. Isn’t this the age of feminism, whatever that means?” Feeling terribly insulted I retorted, “That’s not it at all. Saint George really does fight the dragon. And the princess isn’t a modern woman. I hate writers who change a few things around to get a simple solution. Why do you think I decided to translate the story instead of writing a new version of my own?” The editor naturally wasn’t convinced and asked even more coolly, “Then what’s so interesting about it?” I automatically answered, “Something suddenly appears” but my enthusiasm was out of place and made it impossible for me to back down later.
… the sacrifices, on the other hand, appear, always, unprotected and bare, all alone, in battle, for defense, they, are wearing, their skin, will be carried, to market, desperately, frequently, on a tower, at the top, in a gable, on a column or landing, usually, half on the back, lying, brightly colored, vulnerable, belly, upturned, soft, in that place, the killer, stands, that is, still warm, animal-living, carpet, wearing riding boots, with spurs, comfortably, on the mat, in sinking …
Outside the window shadows were passing over the surface of the sea at an oddly leisurely pace. Looking up I saw the clouds rush by with surprising speed. I thought the banana grove had moved a little closer since this morning. I remember reading about a walking banana tree once. In the story the tree moved only at night. Not that the nearing banana grove really bothered me but merely for my own amusement I decided to count how many cacti I could see from the window. If I counted them now and remembered the number I could count them again later and then I’d be able to tell for sure whether the banana trees were really climbing up the slope little by little or if it only appeared that way. Plants don’t interest me at all but if asked what kind was my favorite I think I would say cacti. I like them because they have no leaves and don’t need water and besides they’re not very useful. No matter how useless they may be though cacti stood between me and the banana grove and that seemed rather important to me just now.
I finally lost count. One of the toes on my right foot hurt so much I had to take off my slipper and take a look inside. Since arriving here pebbles kept getting in my shoes no matter how often I shook them out. It would be understandable if I was walking on gravel but right here in the house a sharp little stone crept into my slipper and tried to separate the flesh of my middle toe from the toenail. When I inspected my bare foot I discovered that the toenail was already purple from the bleeding underneath.
… wherever, people go, wherever, arrive, sacrifices, always, already, there, it is, so natural-seeming, there to be, like a monument, like a well, like a sidewalk or traffic light, therefore, in the same way, naturally, overlooked, passed over, much too, common motif, human, man, murderer, about to, one more, to another living thing, that concept, to show, about to strike a face, about to stab, about to poke a hole, about to smash, comes nearer, cuts off the head, that self cannot protest…
Every time the sun peered through a break in the restlessly moving clouds the leaves of the palm trees by the house glittered like swords. There were moments when the tips fanned by the wind pointed straight at me. I wasn’t particularly afraid of sharp objects unless my eyelids or the mucous membrane inside my mouth felt softer than usual. Then I’d become obsessed with the notion that other parts of my body were just as delicate and the sharp tips of even the most innocent leaves nearby looked disquieting.
… one victor, more, one sacrifice, more, one living thing, one animal, less…
“Do people ever come to the island on cargo boats?” I asked the woman in the shop.
“Recently, yes. Some men take them because they don’t want to get their feet wet. The passenger boats are much safer than canoes and hardly ever leak. But they’re no match for the trading vessels.”
Saint George would definitely be afraid of getting his feet wet. Which was probably why he was always on horseback and those boots he wore must’ve sparkled from the massive amounts of oil he rubbed into them to keep water out.
“Are the trading boats so strong?”
“Of course they are. They use them for cargo, don’t they?”
“What do you import in exchange for the bananas you export?”
“Mostly insecticides. For the banana grove.”
Goat’s milk cheese has the texture of soap and is nasty for the first bite but as the cheese sits in your mouth its peculiar flavor begins to permeate your tongue. Soon after coming to the island I forgot what cow’s milk tasted like. The same way cow’s milk eliminates any trace of your mother’s breast so it must be impossible to store lactic flavors in your memory bank. Goats are the only domesticated animal on this island.
“It’s prohibited to import cows or birds or chickens, you know,” said the woman gazing slyly at me from the corner of her eye. She talked as if she were certain I was in league with a gang of chicken smugglers and wanted to let me know she was on to me. I was annoyed and asked pointedly, “Is it also against the law to import eggs?”
“No, not as long as they’re hard-boiled and the insides are thoroughly dead,” she answered while taking a bottle of hard-boiled eggs out of the refrigerator to show me. The eggs were floating in the yellow liquid they’d been boiled in.
… the sacrifices, everywhere, since old times have been, their sin is what, serious, though, to them, congenital, error, undoubtedly, they, not human, are, they, different are, this alone, a misdemeanor, as the gravest offense, is regarded, and, ultimately, only, to be wiped out, particularly, if not to be turned into real coins, agreements for the protection of species, even, cannot lend a hand, supposing, at that time, already, such agreements, existed, because, they, to whatever species, do not belong, their own species, do not have …
I was walking in the dried-up riverbed with the author. If it weren’t for the patterns the current and the aquatic plants had carved on both sides of the rocky banks and the stones under our feet worn smooth as go stones I could never have imagined that enough water to make a river once flowed here.
There was a man shiny with sweat gathering pebbles and putting them into a blue semitransparent vinyl bag as if he were collecting garbage. The bag was the same kind they used in the banana grove. We were about to pass him without so much as a greeting when he spoke: “In the rainy season the water comes back, you know.” He looked straight at us waiting for a reply but I ignored him. “Come back after the dragon wind. There’ll be water here, you’ll see,” he yelled after us refusing to give up. Here and there between the stones you could see damp earth. If you dug the earth with your fingers only a slight stink drifted up like a fart—no gushing streams. The deeper you went the wetter it became though there was no telling how far you’d have to go before you hit water. Since we hadn’t brought a shovel or any other tools serious excavation was impossible. I had the feeling it would be utterly hopeless anyway.
“Let’s go,” the author said. We were walking on and on toward some indeterminate destination when I noticed a shadow neither wet nor dry constantly wavering back and forth across the stones. On closer examination I myself seemed to be casting the shadow as I walked though its shape was so distorted that it didn’t look anything like me.
“If there was water here there would be no path,” the author said. “Water would render it not a path but a river. We wouldn’t let that bother us, though. We’d simply have to walk somewhere else.”
It suddenly occurred to me that she was terribly concerned about her age. So I needed to avoid saying anything like “But you don’t look fifty” which implies there’s s
omething wrong with being that old. I didn’t feel this way and in fact it no longer seemed possible that a woman under fifty could look beautiful. If I said nothing however the author would become more and more obsessed with her age. I tried to imagine what I’d say if she asked me why I had chosen to translate the work of such an old woman. Or if she told me she was too old to walk anymore. My fear was justified as the path narrowed and turned into a steep uphill grade. The author’s breathing became labored and her every gasp sounded like the beginning of a question I’d have trouble answering and made my heart jump. Before long I too was panting and could only hear my own short breaths so I stopped thinking about age. I must have been thirsty. Otherwise I wouldn’t have remembered the water bottle I had forgotten to bring.
The steep slope finally ended and the view in front of us opened up. We had apparently reached a grassy meadow halfway up a mountain. One peak loomed before us with another nearby. Unknowingly we seemed to have scaled quite a height for the flora had changed—the palms and cacti replaced with chestnut trees that covered the mountains. The sound of bells in the distance startled us. Far below we saw something black. Then brown and white patches appeared. Followed by pure white. Creatures of various sizes and colors were climbing up from the valley in a line. Goats. Each with a bell around its neck that rang in a different tone and engulfed the area in a strange amalgam of sounds. The tiny and terribly skinny black one at the front of the line made its way slowly up the path searching for footholds with thin gnarled legs.
“The weakest one always leads the pack,” the author said. The line of goats continued without a break. One after another they trickled steadily out of the valley. Determined to see the goatherd and dog that would surely follow behind I trained my eyes on the procession without looking away for a moment. I felt like I wouldn’t be able to relax until I had witnessed the “conclusion.” Perhaps I was actually afraid of the goats. Or maybe I was jealous of their freedom to wander about the island without being bothered. If what people said about goats eating paper was really true I’d have to be careful not to let these itinerant beasts anywhere near my manuscript. I wondered if herding goats for a living made one jolly or gloomy. I was sure the author didn’t have any desire whatsoever to see the goatherd. She would no doubt hate his dog even more. Nevertheless she kept her position beside me not moving from the spot.
Yet the last thing to appear was not the sort of “conclusion” I’d envisioned. At the end of the long line was a skinny little black goat just like the leader. With neither human nor canine companion the goats disappeared from sight with their bells still ringing.
“Wish I’d known from the start it would end like this,” one of us said.
… they, do not belong, any species, to, a lineage, do not have, were, everywhere and nowhere, to be found, in water, on earth, or in, or under, in the air, they, always, solitary, from elsewhere, outsiders, ones like that, suspicion, excite, astonishing, so much, ill humor, arrogance, eccentricity, selfishness, his, unbridled, refusal to adapt, from a social standpoint, worthless, they, soon, begin to stink, in that way, they, the plague, bring, to everything, poisonous, odor, as in unofficial, records, in the Legenda Aurea, literally, undecorated, is thus written, in addition, without salvation, that, outlandish, body, its existence, is shown, cannot be made, the idea, cannot be formed, the image, cannot be created, yet, painters, sculptors, poets, others, all, have tried, cannot be made …
I thought I had seen a copy of the Legenda Aurea on the bookshelf the day I arrived so I went to look for it in the other room. The house contained only two rooms besides the kitchen. The one I used contained nothing but a desk and chair while the bookcase portable closet and bed were shoved into the other. The entrance to the bathroom was in the back of the house. My first day here I investigated the other room and had hardly entered it again since. A broken window frame rattled in there from time to time and I had the sense that someone was prowling around in the shadows behind me. The bed was soaked with the fragrance of cologne. I slept in my sleeping bag under the window beside the desk.
The bookcase was filled with a jumble of volumes left by previous guests. Of course there were the usual mysteries and pornography but I also found a scholarly study of the ecology of reptiles an introduction to Mesopotamian civilization a study of Kuwaiti women writers a computer catalogue and a book of traditional recipes from the Canary Islands. Reading the titles deepened my depression. Here was a pile of books I didn’t want to read. I couldn’t find the copy of the Legenda Aurea. Maybe I had confused it with Ovid’s Metamorphoses which I did see on the shelves.
While I was looking at the bookcase I was overwhelmed by a strange desire to swim in the ocean. I imagined walking into the waves and squatting down to let the cold seawater rise up to my shoulders while only the soles of my feet planted firmly in the sand grew warm. I stretched my arms toward the ceiling took a deep breath and then wanted to jump into my bathing suit right away. But if I went down to the beach I would surely never finish the translation. I accepted the job because I wanted to so I better get busy and translate I repeated to myself If it gets too frustrating I can easily quit but since I’ve never before had any trouble refusing work I found disagreeable and since I definitely didn’t refuse this job I must not have had any objections for why else would I have agreed? I asked myself. Sitting at the desk I started to wonder about this woman who thought she wanted to translate—who was she anyway? Last night I made the mistake of washing my hair with soap and the stiffened ends now pricked the back of my neck like twisted pieces of wire. I had forgotten to bring shampoo and the store didn’t carry any. When I tried to use a rubber band to bind the hair in back the weight of the hair pulled at my skin causing my scalp to hurt every time I moved my head. I leaned forward and back searching for a position where my hair wouldn’t jab the back of my neck without success.
Once again bothered by the gradually nearing banana grove I started to count the cacti. The rustling of the banana leaves seemed to be getting louder and though I thought the wind was picking up the palm leaves were still. Winds on this island seemed to blow down the hill in waves so it would often be quite breezy in front of the house and perfectly calm below. If someone else were here we might have talked about the cacti but I was sitting in the room by myself and not feeling the least bit lonely. If something happened to me one no one would be able to help anyway so I might as well be alone. Why did the doctor insist that I have a traveling companion? Both translation and thinking are things you must do on your own so I believe in the end I’m essentially always alone.
… shameless, shows, he, himself, his, equipment, than anyone’s, better, united in one, all, every possible, accessory, specialized, or, unique, besides, is thrifty, into only one, species, is divided into, a species of one, he, for example, has, the claws of a wild cat, the fur of a bear, the skull of a crocodile, the tongue of a snake, the skin of a lizard, the tail of an American alligator, he, has, huge, bat wings, movable, armor of an armadillo, and, sometimes, also, three eyelids, a nictitating membrane, exactly, like a dog’s, not at all, attempting to hide, his anus, above all, testicles, overripe, between his hind legs, sticking out, at the same time, possessing, on the same body, occasionally, in addition, breasts, or, several, pointed, protruding, or, wantonly, hanging down, nipples, never before beard of scandal, is, this leviathan …
I thought I sensed something heave itself off the floor in front of me. I stood up while taking a deep breath and was about to speak but as I had nothing to say and no one to say it to I sat back down again. Lots of little things to worried me. Moreover I remembered the internist warning me not to see a doctor or drink tap water while I was on the island.
I went through the manuscript blacking out all the masculine pronouns I had written. The creature had breasts. So I couldn’t use a word like “he” nor could I imagine what to replace it with. Then again maybe the masculine pronoun might really work. I vaguely remembered the Chinese character for “he�
�� doesn’t only refer to a man but can also mean “the other side.”The other side as a living thing called “he.” I went to the kitchen and split a tiger melon in half. I didn’t have anything else to eat. On the table I found a piece of hardened bread shaped like a canoe but I didn’t want anything dry and I had already eaten the goat cheese. Though I could always walk down to the shop again I thought I’d better not leave yet. As I continued sitting alone in the kitchen the whole idea of translation became more and more incomprehensible.
“Unfortunately I can’t say I’m proud of it,” I answered when the man in the post office asked me what language I translated from. Knowing the islanders despised the language I really didn’t want to tell him. Most of the tourists spoke it as their native tongue. “Then what language do you translate into?” was the next question and this time I openly replied, “My native tongue.”The man must not have wanted to know what that was because he clammed up.
“The people here are all Spanish aren’t they? There aren’t any Africans or Arabs?” I asked in order to change the subject but this turned out to be another mistake.
“We are not Spanish. We are Canarians.”
The two of us talked for a long time there at the only window in the only post office on the island. I felt something akin to nostalgia or the warmth of human contact for the first time since being here and then I had to blurt out something terribly practical.
“In three days I’ll have to send my finished manuscript by express mail so you’ll be sure to open the post office at nine won’t you?”
“Sending it express doesn’t guarantee that it’ll get there any faster you know,” the man replied with a wink.
“That doesn’t matter. Just so long as it leaves the island.” The skin of a tiger melon like the fur of a tiger is yellow with black stripes. When you peel the skin off with your fingers plum-red flesh appears. The peel itself is so soft and tart and delicious there’s really no need to remove it at all. But I was seized by an impulse to “rip it all off”—skin or anything else at hand. Maybe because of hunger. When I bit into the melon the juice dripped off my chin and dribbled between my breasts and beyond before collecting at the spot on my stomach that always breaks out when I catch a cold and that actually felt raw and itchy at the moment although I had no other visible symptoms. Reaching down to touch the spot would only make it worse. Meanwhile sitting here alone the itching became unbearable. Such distractions prevent me from progressing with my work. While finishing the translation might erase these little worries. Up to now I still hadn’t ever finished translating a story. Some obstacle along the way always hindered me and I’d end up asking my friend Ei to translate the rest. I can’t explain exactly what stopped me but for instance I’d catch a persistent cold and George would say things like, “That’s why I keep telling you not to push yourself. You should turn down these silly translation jobs. You don’t make any money from them anyway,” and then I’d lose the will to continue. It was all George’s fault. If it weren’t for him I might be a stronger person.