by Drago Jancar
“A translator yourself, are you?” the poet asked.
TRANSLATED FROM GERMAN BY DONAL MCLAUGHLIN
[UKRAINE]
YURIY TARNAWSKY
Dead Darling
“Imagination dead, imagine . . .”
SAMUEL BECKETT
A room in a hospital where bodies are kept or in a police morgue. Tall walls lined with white tiles that look gray and shine like viscera. Similar but not identical white tiles on the floor. In the back two huge stainless steel refrigerators for storing bodies, apparently three in each, closed. To the left and right stainless steel doors, also closed. In the center a stainless steel cart with black plastic wheels, for transporting bodies, covered with a green sheet that hangs down to the floor on the sides, empty. On the right, attached to the wall, a white ceramic sink that looks white for a change. A set of lights mounted in the ceiling cast a strong, vertical, white light that makes everything beneath it look worthless like a powerful analytical mind driven by a cynical personality.
A man, middle aged, of average height and build, dressed in a tan or gray suit (it is hard to tell which in the overly bright light) and a loose gray or khaki raincoat (also hard to tell which), open, paces nervously back and forth behind the cart, a cellular phone, like a tiny, severed hand, already black, pressed to his left ear. He speaks in an exasperated, desperate voice, as if hoping that the emotion he projects will change his situation.
MAN (beside himself): . . . yes . . . a woman . . . killed or died, we don’t know which . . .Was supposed to be in room number 13 . . . (A long pause.) Yes . . . yes. That’s her. (A pause.) But she’s not here . . . The cart’s empty. (A long pause.) No, I haven’t . . . Alright, I’ll look. Wait, hold on. I want to have you on the line.
He goes up to the first refrigerator, the one on the left, and opens the door. The inside is in fact divided into three horizontal compartments, one close above the other like bunk beds in a concentration camp. They are stuffed full with articles of food, such as bags of flour, pasta, and sugar, cans of vegetables, meats, and soups, bottles of soda, vinegar, oil, soy sauce, boxes of cereals and crackers, bread in plastic bags, and so on, as well as household items of various kinds, among them, salt and pepper shakers, trivets, candlesticks, an electric coffee mill, a toaster, a tea kettle, a wire dish rack, what looks like two separate sets of dishes, a large stainless steel basin, pots and pans, kitchen utensils, loose and on a rack, a birdcage, empty, an aquarium, also empty, a butterfly net, a set of wine glasses, two electric fans, one a table model, another one freestanding, lying on its side, an electric iron, an ironing board, a plastic bucket, a mop, a broom, a dustpan, and a few throw rugs, neatly rolled up. The man runs his eyes over the things, but surprisingly isn’t surprised by them, and speaks calmly into the phone.
MAN: There’s no body here, just junk. Wait, I’ll look in the other one.
He shuts the door, goes over to the second refrigerator, and opens its door. It is constructed exactly as the first one and is also stuffed full with household items, except these are mostly toilet and bedroom articles, such as a scale, a bathroom stool lying on its side, a rubber bath mat, neatly rolled up, bottles of shampoo, lotion, and toilet water, many bars of soap in a wicker basket, a plastic wastebasket, a long-handled brush for scrubbing one’s back, two pillows without pillowcases, what looks like half a dozen sets of bed linen, blankets, towels, and two bathrobes, all haphazardly piled up . The man again runs his eyes over the things, again isn’t surprised by them, and speaks calmly into the phone.
MAN: She’s not here either, just junk. That’s it . . . There’re only two refrigerators.
As he speaks he turns around and walks toward the cart. Now he can see under it through its open end and apparently notices something unusual there, because he gets animated, runs up to the cart, kneels down, and lifts the edge of the sheet on his side. He speaks in an excited voice into the phone.
MAN: I think she’s here . . . under the cart . . . Yes! . . . Oh, my God! She’s dead!
He puts the phone on the floor face up without turning it off and pushes the cart to the right, exposing the body of a woman lying on her right side, in other words facing him, in the fetal position. She is dressed in a yellow bikini with white polka dots.
A tiny Lilliputian voice is heard coming out of the phone shouting something and sounding ludicrous in this situation. It does this a few times and then stops abruptly as if realizing its own inadequacy. The person has apparently hung up. After a few seconds the phone starts beeping out a busy signal. Lilliputian though it also is, it is annoying, like the dripping of a faucet. The man doesn’t seem to hear it, however.
In the meantime he has covered the woman’s body with his, embracing it. He rolls it over on its back in the process. The body, surprisingly, uncurls easily and naturally. It lies with its legs stretched out and the arms along the torso, appearing to be alive. The man unexpectedly straightens up and, holding the woman by the shoulders, shouts at her.
MAN: You’re alive! But they told me you were dead!
The woman is in fact alive. She wears a pair of slanted, white-framed sunglasses which give her an exotic, oriental air. Her pubic region bulges unnaturally high under her bathing suit, as if padded with something. She tries to free herself from the man’s hands, motioning with her arms for him to lean back. After the man has let go of her and straightens up she points at the ceiling indicating she wants him not to shade her from the light. It becomes apparent then that she is lying on a large white bath mat as if on a beach towel. She speaks in an aloof voice, as if physically far away.
WOMAN: You’re keeping the light from me. I want to get tanned.
The man is clearly astounded at what he sees and hears. He looks at the woman in disbelief, unable to say a word. The sound of a melody being hummed comes from somewhere, most probably from the woman. From the snippets that can be heard it appears to be the song “Mary Ann” popularized by Harry Belafonte in the 1950s. The Lilliputian beeping sound coming from the phone once again becomes audible. For a few seconds the man continues disregarding it but in the end hears it, turns to the phone, picks it up, turns it off, and puts it in the breast pocket of his jacket. He is finally over his amazement and speaks to the woman.
MAN: Where have you been? What happened?
The woman lies still for a while and then answers reluctantly.
WOMAN: You always want to know everything . . . too much . . . I’m here now. Isn’t it enough?
MAN (exasperated): But they called me and said you were dead!
WOMAN (with profound irony, scoffing): What do they know? They were wrong, as you can plainly see. I’m very much alive. (After a pause she adds, clarifying her last statement:) I answer to nobody. I do as I please.
She stirs finally, as if to make herself comfortable, moving her head from side to side, repositioning her arms, pulling up her left leg and keeping it bent at the knee, and giving a big sigh, indicating her impatience or displeasure with the situation. Then suddenly she sits up, almost hitting the man on the chin with her head in the process. He leans back just in time.
WOMAN (annoyed in the extreme): What’s the point? . . . It’s regular light, not ultraviolet. I can’t get a tan here.
She looks around the room, breathing angrily, her nostrils flaring, as if looking for something, but apparently doesn’t find it, stands up, goes up to the first refrigerator, opens it, takes out the stainless steel basin, not looking for it but locating it immediately, obviously knowing where it is, shuts the door, goes over to the second refrigerator, opens it, takes a hand towel out of one of the stacks of towels, which is white, shuts the door, goes over to the sink, hangs the towel over her left shoulder, fills the basin with water, waiting for it to get warm, and puts the basin on the floor. The man in the meantime has stood up, followed the woman with his eyes as she moved around, and is now looking at her with interest.
Facing the wall, the woman squats over the basin, hangs the towel over the
edge of the sink, and with her left hand pulls aside the crotch of the bikini so as to expose her sex. As she does this, a large wad of money falls out of the bikini into the basin. It was this that made her pubic region bulge so high. The woman catches it immediately with her right hand, curses quietly, shakes the water off of it onto the floor, stuffs it in her bra, and starts washing herself off, using her right hand. The water makes a soft, melodious sound, splashing against the metal basin, like that of a harpsichord. The man continues watching the woman silently, again as if in disbelief. Crouching over the basin, the woman looks like a female dog urinating, squatting close to the ground. She takes a long time washing off, obviously wanting to make sure she has done a good job, but eventually she is done, stands up, still holding the crotch of the bikini to the side, her knees bent a little, reaches out with her right hand for the towel, takes it, and dries herself off. Having done it, she hangs the towel over the edge of the sink, takes the money out of her bra, holds it firmly in her right hand, walks to the door on the right, opens it, and walks out, leaving the door open.
There is total darkness behind the door, which falls into the room like a huge shaft of antilight. The woman disappears. A blast of cold air is blown into the room and with it a few snowflakes that dance wistfully in the air as if looking for a companion and being unable to find one. Eerie electronic music is heard at the same time, coming in through the door that seems black as the darkness and cold as the cold air, an apt accompaniment to the woman’s disappearance and the dancing of snowflakes. The man stands looking at the empty door in amazement. His coat blows in the air that streams into the room. After a while his whole body starts swaying in the stream of air, as if he were just his clothes, empty on the inside. Then he too starts dancing, whirling through the room. At one point he collides with the cart and tries to use it as his dancing partner but has little luck with it. Then he is blown over to the second refrigerator and thrown against the door. Rebounding from it, he opens it and takes out of it the plastic wastebasket, which is white, shuts the door, dances over to the cart, places the wastebasket in the middle of it, dances over to the first refrigerator, opens its door, finds in the clutter inside it a long, dried-out lily stalk, shuts the door, dances over to the cart, and puts the lily stalk in it as in a vase. Then he dances over to the second refrigerator and takes a few items out of it, such as brushes with long handles or other long things, shuts the door, dances over to the cart, and puts the things in the wastebasket as he had done with the lily. After that he dances over to the first refrigerator again, opens it, takes a bunch of things out of it to complement what he has put in the wastebasket, shuts the door, dances over to the cart, and arranges the things there. He repeats this process a few times, alternating between the two refrigerators until he is satisfied with the arrangement he has created. It constitutes a pitiful ikebana of the memory of the woman who has gone away. While taking the things from the refrigerators to the cart the man sometimes presses them to his heart as if to indicate how dear they are to him or how much he values the purpose they will serve. While dancing over to the refrigerators he sometimes covers his face with his hands, hanging his head down or throwing it back, expressing through these gestures the sadness he feels at the woman’s disappearance. His face grows more and more pale and blank with time and eventually streams with tears. It looks like a windowpane flowing with rain.
The wind has suddenly grown stronger. It whistles, drowning out the music. The door closes with a tremendous bang. The man continues dancing, however, as if not having noticed what has happened. Apparently he wasn’t dancing to the music but to a tune in his mind that must have been very similar to the music. He covers his face with his hands, hangs his head down, throws it back, and cries as before.
As soon as the door closes, something red starts seeping into the room from under the doors on both sides, covering the floor. It is blood. The man dances in it, apparently not noticing what is happening. His feet make unpleasant smacking sounds on the bloody tiles like lips trying to say something but being unable to do it. The blood keeps rising. It reaches the man’s ankles, then knees. He has a hard time dancing, but continues trying. He covers his face with his hands and cries less and less however devoting more and more of his energy and attention to the task of moving. The woman must have splashed a lot of water out of the basin because it floats easily in the blood. A black coffin and its lid now appear, floating in separately. Unlikely as it seems, they must have somehow floated into the room from under one of the doors. They bob up and down and sway from side to side as if making overtures to the basin, which blithely ignores them. The man also ignores the things. It’s as if they don’t exist. The blood has risen up to his waist. He can no longer pretend he is dancing but continues to move, turning around slowly. Now he has stopped showing his grief altogether and devotes all of his energy and attention to moving. The skirt of his coat has gathered like excrement around him. The excrement seems to be his. The blood keeps rising. The towel floats aimlessly through the room, not knowing what to do. The wastebasket that serves as a vase tries to float too, but tips over and its contents spill out. Some of these float in the blood, others sink to the bottom. Eventually the wastebasket does the same. The sheet that covered the cart has finally risen and floats in the blood as if looking for a place to sink.
The room now starts expanding. The walls grow wider and taller, as if fleeing, unable to stand each other. The ceiling also rises and disappears. The refrigerators detach themselves from the wall, grow tall, expand, and float in the blood. Blood has risen almost up to the man’s chin. He has stopped moving and seems to be choked by his coat. Finally he apparently starts moving his legs, for he rises. Standing up, he takes off his coat, then his jacket, finally his tie, and starts swimming. The last glimpse of his face shows it to be completely empty—not like a blank sheet of paper but a sheet of paper virtually all of which has been cut out except for a thin rim around its perimeter. The room is now a sea of blood with the walls a white sky on the horizon on all sides. The refrigerators sway from side to side and bob up and down, tall like office towers made of stainless steel. The man swims with an expert crawl stroke, keeping his head above the blood, staring toward a spot on the horizon where his heart, huge as the sun, throbs laboriously, trying to rise into the sky.
[UNITED KINGDOM: ENGLAND]
TOM MCCARTHY
On Dodgem Jockeys
In one of his short pieces that hovers uncomfortably between being a novel, an essay and an exercise in clinical observation, Georges Perec muses that he’s missed his true calling: Rather than a writer, he should have become a controller for the Paris City Transit Authority. The revelation comes at the end of a day spent sitting in the same spot noting down (among other things) the passage of pedestrians to and from the metro and the frequency with which the variously numbered busses pass by, some full, some empty. But, more subtly, his reasoning goes as follows: If the writer’s task is to record events in time; to bring into sharp focus the trajectories of human lives, both singularly and in all their crowded multiplicity, the contingencies—be these of chance, or design—of a hundred, or a thousand, or a million comings-together, transfers and leave-takings; to intuit and communicate their overall rhythm; and, beyond even that, to peer beneath their surface and reveal the fabric holding the whole thing together, unpick and reconstruct its very weft and warp—well, the transit controller does exactly this.
By the same logic, I would suggest that the most noble and heroic thing to be in this life, or perhaps in any other, is the dodgem jockey. You know what I mean: those guys who work the bumper cars in fairgrounds. Not the fat, older one who sits in the control booth—Perec’s fantasy—but the lithe, young things who cling onto the backs of moving cars, hopping from one to the next.
Considered structurally (and what is a fairground ride but a mechanical construction?), the dodgem ring is made up of three strata. At the top, the grid—that is, speaking Cartesianly, space itself, i
ts sublimated essence and totality; and, speaking metaphysically, the heavens, electrified domain from which the gods cast out their bolts, zap life down to the realm below. That second realm, the floor, the stage across which human dramas play themselves out with a predictable, if frenzied and excited, regularity, is, despite its foot-stamping, wheel-grabbing aspirations to autonomy, powered by the first, which crackles from time to time with angry lightning to remind it where the charge lies in this set-up.
Dodgem jockeys, though, occupy the third stratum, the one lying between the other two: the realm of conductivity, of conveyance. This makes them angels: messengers, or mediators, who ensure that heaven’s work is carried out uninterruptedly on earth, nudging things along, sorting out blockages.
In terms of volume, their zone is the biggest: where the ceiling, like the floor, is flat (even the gods are horizontal), it alone has a vertical dimension. While their nominal “patrons” are obliged to sit for the duration of the ride, they stand tall, towering, erect. Like erotic dancers swinging round their poles, these men are the stars of the show, and they know it. Each ride is a performance, a ballet whose choreography is made all the more exquisite by the casual way in which it’s executed: glissades disguised as offhand sidesteps between moving vehicles, coupés as distracted shifts of weight from one foot to the other. They have mastered laws of motion not found elsewhere: Dodgem cars make no distinction between forward, neutral, and reverse, but submit rather to an endless coiling of the wheel through which every direction flows out of its opposite. A quantum field, vertiginous, abyssal, in whose depths these agents of relativity hover, paradoxically enabling movement to proceed along axes and vectors postulated by old, naïve laws of physics from which they themselves have long since been exempted.