Empty Set
Page 7
DAY THREE: Ushuaia. From the plane, the Patagonian ice looks like a bluish desert: dunes of frozen water. We get to Ushuaia in the late afternoon. There’s a really damp cold that seeps through to my bones. Think I must have been running a fever all night: woke up in a sweat.
DAY FOUR: Left the group (didn’t go to Tierra del Fuego National Park) to find an internet café.
Not a single e-mail from Alonso(A). Life’s a bitch.
The city has a weird, almost ridiculously Dutch feel to it. Went into a restaurant and ordered Mom(M)’s favorite: a submarine (a bar of chocolate dunked in a mug of scalding hot milk). Then back to the hotel and to bed for the rest of the day.
DAY FIVE: End of the world. The guide commiserated with me and offered to take me to a pharmacy: it was closed. Before we boarded the ship, she pointed out a sign near the shoreline that read: USHUAIA. END OF THE WORLD. Everyone else took turns photographing one another. Wasn’t in the mood, but offered my services as a photographer.
For some reason, thought that on crossing that limit, I’d understand something. But it turns out that the famous Lighthouse at the End of the World isn’t the Lighthouse at the End of the World at all: the ship in fact takes you to the Les Eclaireurs (Explorers) Lighthouse, which is much closer, and you don’t discover it’s Explorers Lighthouse until you’re there, beside a small island. The name of the real Lighthouse at the End of the World is the San Juan de Salvamento Lighthouse, and no tourist ship goes there because the facilities are used by the Argentinian Naval Hydrographic Service. The Lighthouse at the End of the World is in fact the title of a novel by Jules Verne, says the guide. It doesn’t exist. The nerve! The most pathetic thing is that the ship does a U-turn at the supposed end of the world and sets off back, as if nothing had happened:
I was thinking “The End” might be a life jacket; wanted to drop anchor there. But one way or another, things succeed in returning to the outset, to some beginning.
Find our photo album on the table in the den. Sometimes think if an object in the bunker moves around, it’s because it wants to tell me something. Sit down to look through the album, even though I know exactly what’s in it and have already searched it for clues millions of times. But now, on the last pages, there are images that weren’t there before . . . It dawns on me that they’re the collection of “frames” I brought from Marisa(MX)’s room. Not interested in knowing how they got there, but do want to decipher the message, otherwise, one day I’ll end up like that: a hole cut out from some place.
It’s a weird feeling to arrive at a place that corresponds to you, but where you don’t belong. To recognize a street you didn’t grow up on. Sleep, eat, take a shower in a house that should be just around the corner from your own. Wander through a neighborhood you didn’t play in. Chat with people you never knew. Find a space just your size, but be unable to fill it. My Brother(B) had flown directly to Córdoba earlier that day. Grandma(G)’s house hasn’t changed at all, he warned me as he let me in. Everything is older, that’s for sure, including her. Everything is covered in dust.
The resemblance to the bunker is terrifying, he goes on to say while I’m unpacking. It’s a sort of Southern Cone branch office, he insists.
On the bathroom walls, there are spiders and colonies of ants stuck in the cement: the walls were never tiled. On one side of the dining room is the gigantic cardboard box that once contained a new washing machine (bought the last time we were here) and is now used as a receptacle for redundant objects. Anything that doesn’t work, or she can’t decide where else to put, goes in the box. There are yellowish damp stains on all the walls. The soles of your shoes stick on the cheap vinyl floor tiles. An old refrigerator in the carport has been made into an archive for all my grandpa’s papers. He died unexpectedly when I was twelve. Mom(M) didn’t arrive in time to say good-bye; she didn’t even see him before the burial. Everything smells of ammonia because of the cat pee; there are three felines living in the house: Mishina, Perlita, and Alelí. And another seven or eight come and go; they never enter the house, but there’s always food left for them in the yard. Grandma(G)’s house is definitively unfinished, like my whole life.
December 30
Solona,
Eht houselight ta eht dne fo eht dlrow si a noc . . .
V.
My Grandma(G) is a hypochondriac and forgetful. We sleep together. Her bed creaks. She goes to the bathroom several times during the night. Whenever she stands up or snores—very loudly—it feels as if the wooden bed base has been holed and is going under. She also takes a siesta. Her siestas are getting longer and longer. In fact, she sleeps the whole time. It occurs to me that if she does this for ten seconds longer every day, she soon won’t wake at all. I can’t sleep if the sun is shining outside, it terrifies me. My Brother(B) is in what was Mom(M)’s bedroom. He says it’s impossible to sleep on her mattress, you just sink like a ship. When she is awake, Grandma(G) goes around and around in circles. The hours slip away without her realizing. It gets too late for her knitting class, so she stays home. It gets too late for her to have her hair dyed, and she leaves it for another time. She’s not letting herself go, says my Brother(B), it’s a form of evasion. And all the other words associated with it: avoid, escape, desert . . . elude . . . flee, sneak away, vanish . . . Disappear, I say the word in the hoarse voice that’s still unrecognizable to me. Disappear, echoes my Brother(B).
“Dust suspended in the atmosphere.” That’s what the telescope manual says s signifies. Don’t believe S. was thinking of that when he chose his pseudonym, but even so he vanished into thin air.
We used to fry four eggs, Grandma(G) says, finally getting back to the subject. Two for me and two for your grandpa. Your mom liked hers hard boiled. Half a dozen eggs at every breakfast. But I got them from a neighbor who kept hens in her yard and sold them at a fair price. Nowadays, you have to go to the supermarket for everything, no one keeps hens in the yard anymore. I go to a convenience store, just on the corner, there are huge supermarkets that are good for shopping because the prices are lower, but I don’t have transportation, and cabs are very expensive, so I just go to the place nearby; now they’ve gone and changed the boy who works there, and the new assistant doesn’t make much of an effort . . . Grandma(G) pours pints of Chuker into her yerba mate tea as she tells me this. Chuker is a brand of liquid sweetener that tastes awful.
Another nightmare: Alonso(A) sends me an e-mail. Can’t read it. It’s written in a cowardly, indecipherable language. Wake trying to remember the words, but they no longer matter.
The trees in Grandpa’s garden are withered. We used to have peaches and plums when we came to visit. At dinner-time, I’d go out to pick up a lemon or two from the ground to squeeze onto the salad. I only went to my grandpa’s grave once. The lightbulb in the kitchen flickers—it drives my Brother(B) crazy—but no one does anything about it. The gravestone is laid flat against the ground. The remote for the television didn’t have any batteries the last time we were here either. We’ve thought about buying some, but still haven’t gotten around to it . . . The gravestone has a small plaque with his name, and at one side there’s a little hole for flowers. When did we last come to Argentina? In 1993, my Brother(B) says. And what year is it now? 2003.
(I) think up a plan for escaping unharmed from this story:
She’s the image of Coty! cluck my Grandma(G)’s friends at the neighborhood cultural center. Grandma(G) managed to get ready in time, so the three of us went to a regional dance performance. Coty is my Mom(M). It’s pronounced with the accent on the y. I’ve never asked why they call her that, and don’t know if they’re aware it’s a brand of perfume. In their eyes, I’m a substitute for my Mom(M). It wasn’t me they were seeing, but Coty, even my Grandma(G). A bunch of people for whom filling holes is enough. They all see Grandpa in my Brother(B) too. There’s a sort of temporal superimposition going on. We are the past. They haven’t changed. And perfumes tend to evaporate. It seems to me all of us have more than
one role in life. (I) can recognize myself in several but can’t manage to get the part (I) want.
Was looking through Marisa(MX)’s telescope. It was in the bathroom, and the space was cramped, but Alonso(A) came in to take a turn at the eyepiece anyway. Then he just stood there looking incredulous. Guess he thought it weird that the telescope was pointing at the cracks and stains on the opposite wall, but it seemed to me his mother must have had some reason for leaving it there, and I wanted to discover what that reason was. That was our first meeting.
As a child, I said, I wanted to be an astronaut, or at least an astronomer, but ended up studying visual arts because I don’t understand the first thing about physics. Didn’t you end up studying something really different from what you dreamed of doing when you were a little boy?
And there I came to a grinding halt.
How could I have used those words to introduce myself? No idea.
I eventually gave a shrug, disappointed, because my question was clearly inappropriate. Ought to have started with something like, “Hi, I’m Verónica.” Although since he was the one to suddenly appear in the bathroom, it should have been up to him to begin with “Hi, I’m Alonso. Are you Verónica?” But then he would have looked silly, because it was obvious he was himself, and the person perched on the edge of the tub, looking through the telescope, was me.
But the bunker was at its weirdest when everything was calm. The absolute silence was often the forerunner of catastrophe.
The staircase Grandpa built in the living room doesn’t go anywhere. You can’t even use it because Grandma(G) put a bulky piece of furniture at the bottom, so as not to waste space. A shiver runs down my spine whenever I pass it. There was meant to be a second floor above. My Brother(B) and I should have lived upstairs, not around the corner. But Mom(M) left. Grandma(G) says my grandpa tried, unsuccessfully, to stop her; Mom(M) and Dad boarded a plane on March 24, 1976. We never lived in that house they never finished building, to which they never added a second floor. Never, never, never. Three times never. But they did build a staircase to the end of the world.
What’s a Tordo?
An urban bird that looks like a rat, but with wings.
And why do they call you that?
. . .
Aren’t you going to tell me?
It’s stupid . . .
Hey, do you know anyone whose nickname isn’t stupid?
Well . . . it’s because I’ve had “speckled” hair since I was twelve.
Like it is now?
It’s more even now, gray streaks. Before it was black and white, and it looked weird.
You were a gray-haired boy! Is that why you don’t have any photos of when you were little?
I’ve got a few.
Are you going to show me them someday?
At the foot of my bed, a ball of rusty wire appeared, with a trail of earth leading to the window. Guessed Nuar must have found it in the tree by the cornice. The next day she left me a piece of red cloth smeared with automobile grease. No idea how to decipher these clues. The third day, it was a broken rubber band. The fourth, a dry twig. The fifth, the wing of a black butterfly. The sixth, nothing. The seventh, a dead bird.
Grandma(G)’s house is suspended in time. It’s also stuck in the moment my grandparents last saw Mom(M). The house in Iponá and the bunker: a pair of found mirrors. The reflection becomes infinite. And the infinite is an eternally empty set.
How do you unmake a secret?
December 31
Solona,
Evol
firmscon
eht
tyrilacucir
fo
eht
verseniu,
V.
OBSERVATION SHEET II
LOCATION: Not given.
DATE: January 10, 2004.
LIGHT POLLUTION (1–10): 0.
OBJECT: Not given.
SIZE: Not given.
LOCAL TIME: 23:00.
EQUIPMENT: Telescope.
OBSERVATION:
NOTES:
The above observation shows a neutrino: a type of subatomic particle with no charge, only half-integer spin, and a mass less than that of an electron. Neutrinos pass through matter without affecting it. In other words, they’re phantom particles.
There was no answer. Rang the bell again. Several times, in fact. Thought I glimpsed a shadow behind the curtain, but no one opened up. Two hours sitting at the door. Zilch. Returned the following day: a sign was hanging in the window of Alonso(A)’s bedroom: FOR SALE.
Maybe Mom(M) is an ice witness.
Or a tree.
Trees don’t move around.
Argentina is once again very far away.
No sooner have we put the suitcases down in the entrance to the bunker than we hear noises in the kitchen.
In unison, my Brother(B) and I emit a loud “huh.”
I peek around the door, motion for him to come and see.
We stare at each other.
Accomplices.
Skeptics.
It’s the sound of the dustpan and broom.
Mom(M)?
She’s sweeping up a broken coffee mug.
On one piece you can see the word:
STILL
The rest of the fragments are illegible.
And if it doesn’t begin, and doesn’t end, then what?
January 13
Ym restdea Solona,
Bang!
V.
AFTERWORD: E-MAIL SET
The “E-mail Set” began its life as an electronic conversation related to a personal pronoun, and involved myself, Verónica Gerber Bicecci, and our editor at Coffee House Press, Lizzie Davis. It ran from January 2016 to April 2017.
The I problem:
In Spanish, it is possible to omit the personal pronoun, as it is indicated by the verb ending (for example, the o at the end of escribo [I write]). This grammatical peculiarity must be kept in mind when translating into English, since the translator will usually wish to avoid the repetitiveness of strings of sentences beginning with the same subject pronoun. The challenge is intensified in a text written in the first person. A further layer of complexity in Empty Set is that characters who are included in the Venn diagrams are indicated in the text by, as Verónica terms it, “gluing their letter to their name”: Hermano(H) / Brother(B). So what to do with I immediately became a “thorny issue.”
When I asked Verónica about her criteria for including or omitting the subject pronoun Yo(Y), she replied, “the designation of the letters points out—I believe—their role in the passages, as well as their place in the diagrams . . . I did try to consciously avoid an overpopulation of Yo, and used it only when I felt it was needed, or impossible to avoid in the structure of a phrase.”
My quandary was, therefore, whether to “overpopulate” the text with I(I)s, not present in the original, or find another way of expressing the pronoun. One initial solution was to avoid it in English wherever possible. The obvious strategy was to use impersonal structures and the passive voice when appropriate, but I also simply omitted the pronoun when I felt the text was comprehensible and coherent without it. Although Ernest Vincent Wright managed to compose Gadsby without using the letter e, there seemed to be no way of erasing I from the translation of a first-person narrative into English without adding levels of complexity not present in the source text.
My possible solutions to the problem of how to express the unavoidable I eventually boiled down to:
1.Leave it as a normal I when not referring to a drawing.
2.Put it in brackets: (I).
3.Use the lowercase: i (maybe with capitals at the beginning of a sentence).
4.Use empty brackets to represent I: ( ).
Of these four choices, I initially liked the empty brackets, as it felt to me they “mirror the way Yo is absent but implicit in Spanish.” The next stage was to produce four versions of the first pages of the text, which I then sent to Verónica and Lizzie.
1.It’s a conceptual decision that works perfectly well with the whole sense of the book.
2.It’s an aesthetic risk that says a lot about the ideas inside the book, and I like these kinds of risks.
And finally but most importantly:
3.It’s a very good way to make clear from the structure of the writing that this is another Empty Set, the one you’re writing and of which I’m just a reader, or cowriter. It’s a way in which, I feel—but correct me if I’m wrong—you’re able to appropriate the book in your own writing and reading. And this is exactly what we have to do, I think. So, in any case, I would really like us to choose every time in a way it can be more your book than mine.
Lizzie came back to us with a different response, one that encouraged us to view the situation from another angle:
I was thinking a lot about the bracketed initials while reading as well, and I’m glad you brought them up—it’s a complicated issue. I think the trouble with modifying the personal pronoun each time it appears in the English is the repeated interruption in the text that comes about as a result, a level of interruption that is not there in the original, and I worry that could be a bit distracting for a reader. We were thinking, too, that the more frequently the bracketed initials appear, the less potent they’ll be in instances where they really were there in the Spanish—they may sort of lose their rarity and their punch. (And I’m sure you are thinking the same thing as you try to reduce the number of Is!) So, what do you think about leaving the Is as they’d normally appear in English, but using an (I) for the instances where Verónica uses Yo(Y)? I think that could help maintain the level of emphasis that’s there in the Spanish while still allowing the (I) to function with the diagrams and carry the symbolic implications that go along with that when the author intended as much . . .