The Taste of Translation
Page 24
The old man nods, understands. He, who journeyed with the icon writer to this place, who left him here having found his rest, yes, he understands his task. He will make the journey on the abbot’s behalf to a monastery where a saint’s relics lie, where a king has been crowned, a monastery far beyond the mountains which sit hard at Ragusa’s back, she the white-walled city by an azure sea.
He sets sail with only a novice as his helpmate, the icon wrapped in a broad velvet pouch embroidered with holy motifs and wound many times round in fulsome silk.
All at peace, all at peace.
This he thinks as the ship roils under a billowing cloth, as his sight is caught by a beyond beyond the horizon, as a soft smile of memory shares space with tears whipped by a salty wind, off and away, beyond.
He arrives in the fortress city, continues his journey on horseback, following the trade route inland beside a fast-flowing river in a fertile valley till he sees the place perched upon its cliff.
Welcomed into the warm embrace of a kindly abbot, drawn into rich conversations with the monks at table, he shares the fullness of his life with them, tells the story of how he was called by the Lord in many ways. Called, called, and called again. And now he is ready to unveil his gift, but first – what is this? – the monks all a-chatter. It seems they have treasures of their own to share.
He is led to a chamber where certain artefacts are kept. Objects he thinks to recognise – a woman’s shawl, frayed and torn, worn threadbare now and thin, an ivory hair comb resting in its folds.
Memory strikes him hard in the gut, sucks breath from thin lungs as he lifts the comb free and runs an arthritic finger along its delicate spine. Memory. Of laughter, childish banter, of cushions tossed and skittles toppled, of being brought into service in a lavish court, of late night murmurs in a patio of myrtles. Gone, all gone, lost to time’s mists. Except for a single memory comb.
A scroll of parchment lies before him, covering a lengthy table’s length, its story unfurled like a ribbon of road. A monk passes him a stone. He reads its alien script, the one known as if his mother tongue, and a sigh escapes parched lips, whistles long and low across the face of the amethyst, tracing a passage through histories unheard.
He turns back to his task, unwraps the icon for all to see and, with a deep bow, presents it to the abbot who nods, smiles, and begins to murmur about honeyed curls across a fine broad brow and eyes the colour of the sea on a day that foretells storms.
The abbot consults his fellows. Each nods and smiles in turn. No one remarks the Lady, only her Child. Brought home, they know, in a knowing that transcends the known. That he is home again, this son of the stranger who was most certainly a gift.
The old man of the desert retreats from their joy back to the scroll, its map of the universe a myth fresh-told. A story he traces across parchment with hands widespread, adding his own recollections to creases and smudged ink.
Finally he stops, surveys the whole, smiles into his reading of this narrative. One which comes from a time before time, from a place before now.
Glossary
Agia Aikaterini: Saint Catherine
Agios Antonios: Saint Anthony
Agios Georgios: Saint George
Anchorite: One who withdraws or retreats
Camino: Pilgrim’s way
Candia: Present-day Crete – in medieval times, the capital Heraklion was also referred to as Candia
Cantiga: Song – verse sung in the troubadour tradition
Censer: Holder for incense used in religious ceremony
Cruciform: Architecturally like a cross
Egg tempera: Paint make by mixing powdered pigment with egg yolk and vinegar
Eleousa: Theotokos icon in tender mercy style
Gesso: Primed base of marble dust, water and hide glue
Glykophilousa: Theotokos icon in sweet-kissing style
Gnosis: Knowledge of a spiritual or mystical nature
Hesychast: A hermit who practices inner prayer
Iconostasis: Icon screen between nave and sanctuary in church
Katholikon: Principal church of a monastery
Kardiotissa: Theotokos icon ‘of the heart’
Kiria: Our Lady, the Virgin Mary
Koliva: Boiled wheat sweetened with honey and raisins, traditionally eaten at an Orthodox funeral
Madinat: Palace
Makaria: A fish meal traditionally eaten at a memorial service
Maphorion: Holy veil (mantle) of the Virgin
Mirador: Scenic lookout
Narthex: Entrance portico of church
Nave: Central hall of church
Panagia: The All-Holy, one of the titles of the Virgin Mary
Postulant: A candidate for admission into a holy order
Ragusa: Present-day Dubrovnik, Croatia
Rocco al Mare: Venetian fortress of Candia
Romiti: Roma, Gypsies
Santa Maria: Saint Mary, Mother of God
Santiago: Saint James, whose relics are in Santiago de Compostela, destination of the Camino
Theotokos: Mother of God
Triptych: Three-panel painting, usually hinged, used in Christian altarpieces since at least the Middle Ages
Vega: Wide plain of rolling grasslands, meadows
Citations and References
Lines from the following works are quoted in the text:
Alfonso X 13th C, ‘Song of Discomfort’, in Kulp-Hill, K (ed.) 2000, Songs of Holy Mary of Alfonso X, the Wise: a translation of the Cantigas de Santa Maria, Arizona Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, Tempe, AZ.
Alfonso X 13th C, ‘Song of the Monk’, in Kulp-Hill, K (ed.) 2000, Songs of Holy Mary of Alfonso X, the Wise: a translation of the Cantigas de Santa Maria, Arizona Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, Tempe, AZ.
Anon 2rd C, ‘The Gospel According to Thomas’, in Layton, B (ed.) 1987, The Gnostic Scriptures, SCM Press Ltd, London.
Anon 14th C, ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’, in Spearing, AC (ed.) 2001, The Cloud of Unknowing and Other Works, Penguin, London.
Holy Bible 16th C, King James Version, The University Press, Oxford.
Holy Qur’an 1974, Quran Publications, Rabwah.
Lorca, FG 1986, Diwan des Tamarit – Diván del Tamarit, Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main.
Machado, A 1982, Antonio Machado: Selected Poems, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA.
Pai Gomez Charinho 13th C, ‘Song about the Pain of Love and Sea’, in Cantigas D’Amor: Songs of Love, viewed 30 March 2010, .
Rilke, R.M 1995, The Book of Hours, University of Salzburg Press, Salzburg.
Roi Fernandez 13th C, ‘Song Against The Sea’, in Cantigas D’Amor: Songs of Love, viewed 30 March 2010, .
St John of Sinai 6th C, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, viewed 30 March 2010, .
And with thanks to the following authors and their texts for contributing to my understanding in the development of this work of imagination:
Alexakis, A 2001, ‘Was There Life beyond the Life Beyond? Byzantine Ideas on Reincarnation and Final Restoration’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.155-177.
Brooks, ST (ed.) 2006, Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261-1557): Perspectives on Late Byzantine Art and Culture, Yale University Press, New Haven, CO.
Carr, AW 2002, ‘Icons and the Object of Pilgrimage in Middle Byzantine Constantinople’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 56, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.75-92.
Clucas, L (ed.) 1988, The Byzantine Legacy in Eastern Europe, Columbia University Press, New York.
Constantinides, CN 2001, ‘Byzantine Gardens and Horticulture in Late Byzantine Period’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.87-103.
Cormack, R 2000, Byzantine Art, Oxford University Press, Oxford.
Crowe, DM 1994, A History of the Gypsies of Eastern Europe and Russia, St Martin’s Press, New York.
Dennis, GT 2001, ‘Death in Byzantium’, in Dumbarton Oaks Pape
rs, No. 55, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.1-7.
Donia, RJ & Fine, JA 1994, Bosnia and Hercegovina: A Tradition Betrayed, Columbia University Press, New York.
Eastmond, A & James, L (eds.) 2003, Icon and Word: The Power of Images in Byzantium, Ashgate, Aldershot, UK.
Fraser, A 1992, The Gypsies, Blackwell, Oxford.
Gersetel, SEJ 2001, ‘Art and Identity in the Medieval Morea’, in Laiou, AE & Mottahedeh, RP (eds.), The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.263-285.
Hetherington, P 2001, The Greek Islands: Guide to the Byzantine and Medieval Buildings and their Art, Quiller Press, London.
Hoeller, S 1989, Jung and the Lost Gospels, Quest Books, Wheaton, IL.
James, L (ed.) 2007, Art and Text in Byzantine Culture, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
Kalokyris, K 1973, The Byzantine Wall Paintings of Crete, Red Dust, New York.
King, KL 2003, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala: Jesus and the First Woman Apostle, Polbridge Press, Santa Rosa, CA.
Maguire, H. (ed.) 1995, Byzantine Magic, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC.
Maguire, H 2002, ‘Paradise Withdrawn’, in Littlewood, A, Maguire, H, Wolschke-Bulmahn, J (eds.), Byzantine Garden Culture, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC, pp.23-35.
Pagels, E 2003, Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas, Random House, New York.
Poole, KR 2007, ‘In Search of Paradise: Time and Eternity in Alfonso X’s Cantigas 103’, in eHumanista: Journal of Iberian Studies, Vol.9, University of California Press, Santa Barbara, CA, pp.110-128.
Rakic, S 1998, Icons of Bosnia-Herzegovina, viewed 30 March 2010, .
Sevcenko, NP 1999, ‘The Vita Icon and the Painter as Hagiographer’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 53, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.149-165.
Spearing, AC (ed.) 2001, The Cloud of Unknowing and Other Works, Penguin, London.
Talbot, A-M (ed.) 1996, Holy Women of Byzantium: Ten Saints’ Lives in Translation, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC.
Talbot, A-M 2002, ‘Byzantine Monastic Horticulture: The Textual Evidence’, in Littlewood, A, Maguire, H, Wolschke-Bulmahn, J (eds.), Byzantine Garden Culture, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC, pp.37-67.
Talbot, A-M 2002, ‘Pilgrimage to Healing Shrines: The Evidence of Miracle Accounts’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 56, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.153-173.
Tong, D (ed.) 1998, Gypsies: An Interdisciplinary Reader, Garland, New York.
Velkovska, E 2001, ‘Funeral Rites according to Byzantine Liturgical Sources’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.22-51.
Vikan, G 1982, Byzantine Pilgrimage Art, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC.
Webb, R 1999, ‘The Aesthetics of Sacred Space’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 53, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.59-74.
Wortley, J 2001, ‘Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell’, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington DC, pp.53-69.
Zenith, R 2004, An Unsung Literature: Galician-Portuguese Troubadour Poetry, viewed 300310, .
Panel Three: Kisha’s Story
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon. …
The rest was death, and death alone
At five in the afternoon.
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936)
Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!
Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
Down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness
Even where Persephone goes …
DH Lawrence (1885-1930)
So Many Stories
One
Do we have enough glasses?
Kisha looked over to where a muffled voice emerged from the bowels of the corner cupboard. Every now and then, its owner passed her a dusty tumbler for polishing. When the count stood at ten, she cried a halt. Good, he mumbled, getting slowly to his feet. I think all that’s left in there are old jam jars.
A late summer’s party on the balcony that evening. She’d made salads, dips, they had bread, olives. Berries for dessert.
I’ll just nip up to the brewery, said Samir.
Can you carry enough? she frowned.
He grinned. Plato will give me a hand. We’ll just be two old ladies wheeling our shopping trolleys home.
They sat around, laughing, talking, refilling tumblers at will with fresh frothy beer. Kisha smiled as Nada hugged Kasim tight, Jasmina told a joke, Marko strummed his guitar. All her friends were there.
It was a glorious night. Twilight past, the face of the old town had deepened to smoky blue. The minaret was lit, the cathedral tower too, the roof of the Orthodox church was a smooth dome of spotlit copper reflected onto treetops. Streetlights shimmered in the river below, its slim path through the city a brocade of bronze lace.
The sounds of their collective happiness spiralled up into the air and floated over the roofs to forested hills beyond. Then why the sudden knot in her stomach, the tightness in her chest? A feeling which rose, took sporadic leaps at her throat. She couldn’t make it out, looked over at Samir. Could he sense it – the edginess in her finger tap, the twitch of her knee? But he simply smiled back at her, a white-toothed smile in a broad dark-eyed face.
He held a nutcracker in his hand which was busy performing a time-honoured task. Crack, crack – silver-gilded, sufficient. Crush one, now another.
She turned away but not soon enough. Automatic gunfire exploded in her head. The blink of an eye, God no. Samir! Her glass slipped to the concrete and splintered into shards.
Oh! She was lifted from sleep, bolt upright in bed.
It took several minutes before she could remove herself fully from the space of the dream. Even longer to piece together its fragments, recollect scene and actors, her very self. She stared at the wall, a blur of fuzzy shadows cast by streetlamps along Obala – wavy, shifted by the river’s flow – and saw again the finale.
Kisha reached out to the warm body sleeping at her side, his head tucked into the crook of his arm. She held a hand to the small of his back, acknowledged the rhythmic in-out, in-out of life and lay back down, nestled into him. Yet her eyes stayed open. Closed they would see the hole in his head, his lifeless eyes, frozen smile, and a shattered walnut in his hand, bleeding from an unseen wound.
At the café, a group of students sat around a table too small for them all and their detritus. Books and satchels competed with coffee cups and tiny cubes of Turkish Delight perched on the lips of copper trays. Several conversations were going on at once while Kisha mechanically stirred a sugar cube into her pungent soup.
Ki-. Ki-? Marko had been trying to catch her attention for some time now.
Hmmm? A blank-eyed expression greeted him.
Are you OK?
She shrugged. Not enough sleep last night. Bad dream, that’s all.
After class he sought her out more pointedly. Hey, he said, that dream. Hesitated a second. Was I in it?
Her eyes narrowed. What makes you think so?
He took her arm, steered her toward a vacant park bench out front of the faculty building. Because I had a crazy dream last night too. And you were in mine.
Kisha stared at the traffic, the trams rumbling past on their way to the Library turn and said: We were having a party and you were there, just one of the guests. Nothing more.
Well, why was it bad?
Something bad happened to Samir. She shook her head, studied her knees. It was a warm day, an Indian summer’s day. It gave me a fright, that’s all.
Mmmm – well, in my dream it was just you and me.
What?
Nothing like that, he grinned and punched her arm in that big brother sort of way he’d always used since school.
No, he said, face contorted. No, this was weird. We were walking along the river upstream from Alija, chatting and stuff, but when we looked into the water, it was blood red. He paused. Yo
u crossed the bridge.
Which bridge?
Goat Bridge. I stayed on the town side and you went on up into the hills. I stayed beside this sickening river of blood, and you –
Yeah, I get the picture, she interrupted. It was time for full disclosure. In my dream, Samir was shot in the head while we sat around, laughing talking drinking, typical party stuff. He was cracking walnuts – you know the sound? And when I turned back, he was dead. A bullet hole to the centre of his forehead and a bloody walnut carcass in his hand.
Phew. Marko’s breath was slow to empty. Have you told him?
No, she snapped. Would you? She shook her head, chewed the ragged end of a fingernail. I don’t know. Maybe it’s all that stuff on TV, that stupid stuff in Croatia, the army going in. I guess it stews away inside and spews out as crazy dreams.
She stared at the traffic some more. I don’t get it, she said. We’re all Yugoslavs, damn it.
Yeah, sighed Marko. But some of us are more Yugoslav than others.
Christmas was at Baba’s as usual. Her grandmother’s house of upstairs-downstairs, attic in the roof and apple tree in the garden, once stood on the edge of town but now was flanked by a plethora of apartments built during the Tito years. Not that Christmas was officially celebrated, New Year the ritual of choice for good socialists when presents were exchanged and a glass raised to the glory of the Yugoslav ideal – brotherhood and unity!
Ah, but old habits die hard. Separating a people from its culture is never a permanent solution. They rise of their own accord, these desires for tradition, for how things used to be. Layers may be overlain – new practices, new beliefs, new rhythms to life lived – but some things are arcadian, deep, evolutionary. At the very least, trimming a tree is festive, lighting candles on a cold winter’s night warming and sharing a thanksgiving feast joyous.
Baba’s whole tribe had assembled. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends long-standing, true. Respective cultural, ethnic or religious identities went unremarked. Five centuries of common life had yielded generations whose roots transected Serb, Croat and Bosniak, or Orthodox, Catholic, Muslim and Jew. An intricate mosaic, a tapestry tight-woven. An intermingled, intermarried melting pot of diversity bound by a single constant, Sarajevo, her nucleus no more than a kilometre-long stretch of verdant valley through which an observant river flowed.