Translation Tuesday: “The Fly” by Linda Lê

In the beginning, I loved her well: the Fly. She had entered my home in a daze. Perhaps she had just escaped the wrath of a furious fly-swatting. Surely it was my upstairs neighbor who every morning, as I risked a glance out the window, greeted me with a cloud of dust, indicating that the hustle and bustle of household chores, even on Sundays, never ceased. Pursued by the Fury of the sixth floor, the Fly had thus come into my home, like a panicked young girl fleeing a demon. She flew towards the kitchen table and froze for a moment to ensure that her surroundings were free of any weapons — those insecticide bombs with which my neighbor was so well-equipped — that could swiftly annihilate all that moved or crawled or flew. Judging the palpably bare interior of the kitchen in my apartment, her suspicious gaze traveled up my poor utensils; upon noting the absence of a flytrap, she let out a sigh of relief. I had seen her from my desk but was content with simply observing her from afar, without making the slightest noise that might startle her. She ventured towards the kitchen sink, drawn in by the odor that emanated from the remains of my lunch. The poor thing! I thought to myself. She would have to settle for some measly noodles glued to the bottom of a pan. But after all, flies feast on filth. Satisfied, she went to sit on a shelf stocked with empty jam jars; her terrible journey was behind her. She looked around, wondering: Would she stay there or fly off in search of other havens? It was in that moment, I believe, that she saw me. I would have to make it clear to her that I was harmless. She had flown into the house of a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. After spending enough time with me, she would rediscover her faith in humanity. Pleased by the thought, I returned to my book. I heard her fly into the kitchen. She staked out a claim to her domain but, still wary, did not venture into the room where I sat. The afternoon went on in this way: in a familiar silence, disrupted only by the buzz of my new companion. When it was dinnertime, I whistled as I made my way to the kitchen, careful not to frighten the fragile maiden. She took off at the sign of my approach and continued to flit about. She stayed huddled close to the window during the entirety of my dinner which was, to tell the truth, quickly dispatched as usual since it comprised of nothing more than a bowl of bouillon accompanied by a slice of bread and a piece of cheese. I washed the dishes and returned to my desk, leaving a splendid piece of Roquefort on the table that I imagined she might like. I took out the manuscript of the novel that I had begun after my wife’s departure. The novel progressed with such difficulty that I had begun to suspect that Virina, the obtuse, the imperious, the inexhaustible Virina, had taken all my energy with her when she left. That woman had the vitality of a virus, but I must admit that I would rather feel tired, powerless, and alone than live alongside a diseased volcano that erupted with idiocy, ignorance, and ill will. Up to that point, all my books had been an attack on her. In the moments where tenderness abandoned her, she admitted to never having, as she put it, understood a single word of my books. She referred to them as my wank-offs. With her gone, nothing was left of that energy, that energy which turned my pity into hate. It was time to start over. From this point onward, I would write for… for WHOM? I raised my head. The Fly silently treated herself to the cheese. I set down my pen and observed her. How happy she was. How simple her life. I was her savior; she resembled me in that way, a survivor of catastrophe. Cervantes, Panizza, Soseki, and Hoffmann had all talked of dogs and cats; why shouldn’t I make a fly my muse? And mine is so beautiful, with her blue wings, her frightened eyes, her ever-so-fragile little feet, so graceful that, upon looking at them, it would be tempting to call her footprints the scratchings of myopic old men. But it pleases me that my Chosen One is seen by others as a plain Jane, as a pest. She will be my lucky charm, my talisman, my secret. Like her, I will feed off the putrefaction of the world; everywhere, I will sow the seeds of infamy; I will delight in the bovine satisfaction of my fellows, just as exasperating as the horsefly sent by Hera to torment Io. The Fly and I, we will inflict on them bites that, if not lethal, will make them lose their minds. Oh! My Fly, my soul, my sister — what a future we have ahead of us! I will cherish you; you will grow even fatter than Virina ever was — who near the end, no longer knowing how to express her hostility towards me, took her revenge by stuffing her face. The locust that I had known became a fleshy, pink, lustrous, royal beauty who didn’t give a fuck about literature. But you, my Fly, I will revise you until you have the sparkle of 12-point font and a compliant style: bold or thin, italic or roman, as I see fit… Lost in my reveries, I had not noticed that the Fly, as if she had sensed my happy disposition, had ventured into my room and was flying here and there, all carefree. I didn’t dare make any moves that could be misconstrued: I got into bed and fell asleep, happier than a criminal who has found his perfect accomplice. I was woken early the next day by a pleasant tickling: she had come to rest on my cheek, and her light kiss caressed the corner of my mouth. I had won her over. She let me go when I went into the bathroom. I was thankful for her modesty. She returned to kiss my hand, thanking me for the bowl of milk I prepared for her. I remained awake to make sure that she ate without drowning and returned to my seat at my desk. All morning long, I filled page after page. Swarms of words flooded my mind. My inspiration, until now as barren as the common fig tree, had been reanimated and bore fleshy, velvety fruit. Once I was done, and as compensation for my muse, I called the caterer who (during my time with Virina) had supplied me with fine dining, and I ordered a banquet worthy of the gods. Were we not, the Fly and me, the Animal Muse and the Divine Poet? From this day onward, I stuffed her with dishes, each more refined than the last — for I had noticed her disdain for the old pieces of cheese that had become my standard diet and that she must have found, understandably, unworthy of a muse. My kitchen became a gigantic pantry. I kept ordering more and more dishes; I would have a taste then leave them on the table, on the kitchen sink, on the shelves. As the days went by, the plates full of sauce and the remains of meat produced a putrid odor. But my Glutton seemed so happy that I allowed joy to invade my heart despite the filth. Soon enough, the dishes conquered my desk, my bed, the little vital space that remained. I was incurable: I worked with a furious passion. The Fly read over my shoulder and, from time to time, kissed my hand in encouragement. When I raised my head from my work, disgust at times would rise up in my throat, but I immediately recognized it to be self-reproach. And besides, she gave me a proof of her love that quickly made me regret my petty thoughts: she introduced me to her family. One morning, she seemed to me feverish. There was something amiss about her buzzing. I didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t touched a single dish. I was anxious and sad. My despondency prevented me from working — even more so because, unlike usual, she had stopped kissing my hands and cheek. She flew into the kitchen as if she was short of breath, then she sat on the windowpane and beat her wings while twirling, more agitated than ever before. I watched her, distraught. I wished to forget the incident by delving into my manuscript. In vain! Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity. I understood her wish. Fearing that I would lose her — that I would see her fly off and become the victim of a bug bomb brandished by a merciless housewife — I had kept the windows closed, sealed airtight since her arrival. Now sure of her fidelity, I no longer had any reason to imprison her. I opened the windows wide and, reassured, I awaited the result of my initiative. Right away, a squadron of flies rushed into the apartment and came forward to meet my Muse, who, beaming, led her family towards the feast. There were ten of them — my Muse was part of a big family; she was no spoiled brat. The smallest ones were no doubt her younger sisters. The patriarch, his majesty, had an imposing presence: he was a terribly fat fly, whose wings sparkled with gold. I left this joyous company to their feast and returned to my desk. But just as soon as the fluttering of my Fly calmed me and revived my will to work, the buzzing of that greedy swarm robbed me of my concentration. I felt as though I was an actor deprived of my prompter, and it had instead been replaced by a throng of murmuring demons. That day, I didn’t write a single line. The next day, I found my pages covered with droppings and saw that the family had grown. There were now fifteen. To stop the invasion, I shut myself away once more. That prompted a muffled rebellion. The imprisonment drove them mad. They whirled around my head until I couldn’t take it anymore, and I threw at them whatever I had at hand. Writing was no longer an option. Every time that I attempted to string together a few words, they would turn into flies before my eyes. Strange words, unknown to any dictionary, buzzed about in my head. The last straw came when my Fly began leading the insurrection. She approached me as she had before, but instead of resting delicately on my cheek, she jumped from my nose to my brow; she tickled my ear. I would venture to say that she would have bitten me if she could. And thus began an open war between the flies and me. Due to poor strategy, I lost the battle. Weary from swatting at them with a book, I fell into a sort of lethargy. For entire days, I remained prostrate in front of my pages, where the sentences, covered in droppings, had become unreadable. The flies, emboldened by their victory, came peacefully to rest upon me, as I was unable to muster the strength even to shoo them away. In the night, their infernal buzzing prevented me from getting a wink of sleep, and that morning, I found a petrifying swarm in the creases of my comforter. Finally, in a fit of despair, I ran towards the window, opened it wide, and showed my invaders the vast world before them. This last-ditch attempt cemented my definitive loss. Instead of liberating me from my demons, even more were drawn in. The apartment became the Kingdom of Houseflies. Not a corner of any wall was left untouched by the large black stains that moved and swelled like nightmarish flowers. My muse no longer came to me. Her small family had been joined by packs of cousins, friends, and admirers. The whole beautiful crowd relished in the dishes that gave off a corpse-like stench. I stayed sitting in my bed, my head under the blankets, starving and shivering with fear. I hid myself from them; I wished to be blind and deaf to their ravages. I saw them melt onto me, as if called by a trumpet blow from the Lord. A prince led them, commanding the squadron. Once they transformed me into a zombie, they went on to claim the spoils anywhere there remained a living soul. I am the first sacrifice. Open the Book of Despairs. You will see the black Flies escaping from its pages.

These notes were discovered near a man found dead in his apartment.

Translated from the French by Alex Nelson.

Linda Lê was born in Đà Lạt, Vietnam in 1963, and escaped to Paris, France, at the age of 14 with her mother and sisters. It was in this environment that Lê developed a passion for the French language, and her advanced studies culminated in the release of her debut novel Un si tendre vampire in 1986. Lê won le Prix Fénéon for her novel Les Trois Parques (1997) and le Prix Wepler for Cronos (2010). Her novel Lame de Fond was nominated for le Prix Goncourt in 2012. In total, Lê had written over 25 books, three of which have been translated into English: Slander translated by Esther Allen, The Three Fates translated by Mark Polizzotti, and A Tale of Love translated by Sian Robyns.

Alex Nelson is a third-year Yale college student native to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She is on a pre-med track while also studying comparative literature. Alex is fluent in Spanish, French, and English. As she became interested in understanding her distant family history, she has recently been studying the intersection between literature written in French by Vietnamese authors and the themes of exile, anomie, and the power of language. She fortuitously stumbled upon Linda Lê’s work and has since been thoroughly bewitched by Lê’s short stories. She is honored to translate Lê’s work into English and hopefully make Lê’s words come alive for those who have never been able to read them.

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