Translations

Translation Tuesday: “The Diary” by Edogawa Ranpo

A sudden thought struck me—could my brother have been in love with Ms. Yukie?

This Translation Tuesday, we bring you an intricate puzzle by master mystery-writer Edogawa Ranpo, translated from the Japanese by Erin Vastola. An admirer of Edgar Allan Poe (to whom his pen name was an homage), Edogawa is celebrated both in Japan and abroad for incorporating Japanese cultural elements into suspenseful narratives driven by rigorous logic, and “The Diary” is no exception. Following the death of his younger brother, the unnamed narrator of this peculiar short story mourns the fact that his sibling died too young to experience romantic love. But as he inspects his brother’s diary and letters, he begins to doubt his assumptions. What follows is an elaborate psychodrama of code-cracking, thwarted courtship, and the correspondence culture of early twentieth-century Japan. Read on!

It was the evening of my younger brother’s memorial service, exactly seven days after his passing. I entered his study and picked up the writings he had left behind. Alone with my thoughts, I sank into deep contemplation.

Though it was not particularly late, the household—still damp with tears—had fallen into complete silence. From afar came the plaintive echoes of street vendors’ cries, somehow imbuing the scene with the flavor of a modern play. Touched by the gravity of long-forgotten childhood emotions, I unconsciously opened the diary on my brother’s desk.

Gazing at the diary, I mournfully thought of my twenty-year-old brother, who, I feared, had left this world without ever knowing love or romance.

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Translation Tuesday: “The Clock” by Leyzer Wolf

Room. Night. Darkness. / Fiery, passion-armed throes.

This Translation Tuesday, a poem in the Yiddish by Leyzer Wolf (recovered and translated by Roberta Newman) presents the febrile hours before a tryst. Time ticks down with an exquisite slowness, in volatile, pyrotechnic couplets that positively shudder with anticipation.

Almost all of Wolf’s work has been lost. Though he was a prolific writer, most of his poems remained unpublished during his lifetime, reportedly stored in a stuffed-to-bursting cupboard in his apartment in Vilna. It is likely that most of the manuscripts were left behind when he fled to the Soviet Union at the beginning of World War II; others were in the suitcases that went missing after his death in Uzbekistan in 1943.

The Clock

Evening-sun. Blaze.
Bushes by the bridge.

And the clock on the wall says:
Tick, tick, tick.

Rendezvous, night.
Fever on her cheek.

And the clock in her room says:
Tick, tick, tock.

Lips, park, trees, man.
Farewell by the bridge.

And the clock of her heart says:
Bliss, bliss, tick.

Room. Night. Darkness.
Fiery, passion-armed throes.

And the clock on the wall
Goes, goes, goes.

Evening-sun. Blaze.
Bushes by the bridge.

And a different hand gets kisses:
Bliss, bliss, tick.

Room. Night. Darkness.
And a bullet to the head.

And the clock in her room says:
Tick, tick, stop…

Translated from the Yiddish

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Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from “The Gift” by Nevena Mitropolitska

her answer had already been thought out: she wanted him and her grandmother to take her to a real ballet performance.

This Translation Tuesday, Asymptote presents a tale of parental love from Bulgaria, written by Nevena Mitropolitska and translated by Zlatomira Terzieva. Neda’s grandfather, a woodcarver, has always prided himself on his ability to carve whatever birthday gift his granddaughter asks for—but on her seventh birthday, she makes an unexpected request, one that tests the limits of what he can give. What follows is a touching story that is as much about class and art in late communist Bulgaria as it is about the love between a grandparent and grandchild, about the hope that our descendents will have more than what we were given. Read on!

Everything started with a question. On the eighteenth of October, nineteen seventy-eight, exactly three months before Neda turned seven years old, her grandfather, as he was sitting in front of the TV in his rocking chair and stroking its scuffed armrest, asked her what kind of present she wanted for her birthday. That wasn’t an ordinary question, but a ritual, which repeated itself every year on the same date. He needed three months to get ready. Whatever she wished for, her grandpa would create out of wood. Had she purchased a piece of clothing, he would have carved that too. He would find a large piece, he would lock himself down in his small basement workshop, full of odd chisels, and the place would buzz with activity. When he formed his creation, he would paint all over it with thin brushes and he would varnish it. She could watch for hours how his coarse fingers lovingly danced on the wood and breathed form, feelings, and even movement into it. For her fourth birthday, she had chosen a baby doll—he had made it with a hole in the mouth so she could put a pacifier inside. For her fifth birthday—a house—complete with everything—with a chimney, with two windows (they had no glass, he covered them with nylon), with a door that could be opened and had a painted handle, and inside—a miniature bed. For her sixth birthday, she received a small table with four small chairs, and she sewed a green tablecloth together with her grandmother. And on that eighteenth of October, three months before her birthday, as he was asking her the fateful question, her grandpa was already delightfully anticipating—even his mustache was trembling from excitement, the joy of his unity with the wood. This time, however, Neda was going to surprise him.

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Translation Tuesday: “She-wolf” by Dieuwke van Turenhout

Only later, outside the city, when the meadows are staring at her, does she say, ‘Manouk is probably not going to make it.’

This Translation Tuesday, the spotlight is on an unflinching portrayal of bereavement from Dutch author Dieuwke van Turenhout, brought into the English by the award-winning translator Michele Hutchison.

Nicole’s young daughter is in hospital, hooked to machines that keep her alive. The prognosis is that she will soon die. Nicole is overwhelmed with a vicious grief, but a hospital is no place to voice the waves of anguish, panic and rage that churn and tear inside her. The blank pretence and sterile platitudes she must adopt serve only to heighten her desolation. But at her very lowest, a moment of connection with a fellow parent shows the beginning of a path forward. By cutting through suffocating politesse, she is able, finally, to confront the impending death of her child.

She passes the smokers, her fists clenched. Every afternoon, she makes her way through their fumes, dizzy from the hospital air and her faltering breath. Beyond the smokers, she sniffs disdainfully in disgust and then fills her lungs. She doesn’t give a damn that sometimes, walking with her eyes closed, she almost knocks over one of them. She doesn’t want to see them either, this good-natured puffing herd, choosing to smoke themselves to death, to wilfully destroy their organs.

Today had been a good day, as in ‘not so bad’—the nurse’s voice had sounded cheerful. And even though it could have just been the nurse’s mood, she dialled Hugo’s number right away in the stairwell.

As she says hello to Hugo, she looks up. She finds herself amid a group of people waiting around. The boy in the wheelchair is on his own. His blanket has slipped from his torso, he moves a hand slowly over the folded edge. She scans the smokers, no sign of the man with the drooping shoulders, the one she presumes is his father. Although she doesn’t want to, she makes eye contact with the boy. Now she knows he has no eyelashes or brows. Blue worms run across the boy’s hands, pointing to his skinny fingers.

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Translation Tuesday: “Baby Shower” by Isaura Contreras

They were surprised when just four months later, Mat and Sara told them the news that they would be living together, for a very special reason.

This Translation Tuesday, we bring you an understated comedy of modern manners from the pen of Isaura Contreras, translated from the Spanish by Janet M. Izzo. As the on-again, off-again relationship between Mat and Sara blooms into anticipated parenthood, their coworkers Pablo and Lidia watch first with amusement, then anxiety. Their own relationship, so secure in comparison to Mat and Sara’s initial misfortunes, begins to seem stagnant and decayed in the face of the other couple’s renewed affections, and the prospect of new life. Will they reconcile themselves to their differences, or end up like the formerly-single Mat, whom they once so smugly counseled? If nothing else, the story is guaranteed to amuse anyone who has been forced to endure the antics of baby-crazed friends—read on!

Pablo and Lidia had started seeing each other the year before they saw Mat arm in arm with Sara, who had arrived at the office just three months earlier. They were both glad that Mat was dating someone after the tumultuous breakup with his fiancée. Nevertheless, they couldn’t help but wonder what Sara saw in him, even though they considered Mat a dear friend. Sara was clearly kind and attractive, candid and sweet, compared to a resentful and hostile guy, who took advantage of any opportunity to bring to light others’ misfortunes. Pablo and Lidia disregarded these embittered episodes, keeping in mind the four years they’d known him, especially the compassion that suddenly surfaced after the wedding was canceled. Mat, once recovered from the shock, described in a surge of sincerity, the painful weeks he searched for her without success. Pablo and Lidia rehearsed their best lines and witnessed how he recovered his arrogant walk. They discussed the huge favor they could do for him if they only dared, as good friends, to give him advice. Pablo would tell him how girls should be treated, with signs of affection and attention to small details, with compliments every morning, noticing their different hairstyles and the color of their eye makeup. All activities that, punctually and purposefully, he had managed to accomplish in his own relationship. Lidia would also tell him that it is important to put arrogance aside, to stop being explosive and antagonistic, authoritarian and worried about appearing sensitive. She would tell him that relationships are like plants that need to be watered, day by day, with care and devotion.

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Translation Tuesday: Three Poems by Luciana Jazmín Coronado

We like to walk in the cobwebs of the creator’s finger, to die of laughter and ponder things that swing in the light.

The heartbeat of the poems of Luciana Jazmín Coronado (tr. Allison A. deFreese) comes from the push-pull of beginning- and end-times. “The Beginnning” is a genesis myth refigured for our critical moment. The Christian version has it that the world sprang from God’s command; Coronado imagines a gentler awakening, in which drowsy, new-born man stumbles not only upon apples but coal—twin sins, the seeds of Anthropocene destruction. “Imperfect Children” is suffused with the same ambivalence, a gentle petition to a lowercase god to heal the open wound of existence; “Creation” imagines in the same breath god’s “perfect green lawn” whose plants gird themselves for its coming destruction.

The Beginnning

I.
I was born.

I’ll follow some path,
ask why I bear such sorrow

I ask the sun to step aside because he’s old
and watches everything without remembering.

I love myself with one hand
and explore northward with the other.
I might be inside a flower
or anywhere else. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: from “And Death Shall Have No Dominion / Killing ‘The Mother’”

To More Deaths, more glasses raised in secret toasts.

This Translation Tuesday, we bring you an excerpt from Victoria Guerrero Peirano’s experimental novel Y la muerte no tendrá dominio, translated into English for the first time by Honora Spicer. In surreal and brutal fragments, Guerrero recounts the death of her mother in a state hospital, the two women alienated from each other not only by the physical process of death itself, but by the mediating force of medical bureaucracy. Elsewhere, Guerrero is pursued by thoughts of her pet rabbit, whose “half-dead brood” have similarly consumed her, the process of grief expanding even to overwhelm nonhuman life. Yet even at its most grim, Guerrero remains clinically attentive to the social and political forces that determine embodied experience, her oscillation between passion and restraint serving to heighten the eeriness of her prose. Read on!

7

Ever since she was admitted to the Emergency Room, I kept a sort of diary. I kept note of everything the attendants baldly said. Under duress, they barely opened their mouths to say, “I’m not the one in charge.”

From that day on, death buckles and becomes something nasty, dramatic, dreadful, defining. I thought about that whole troop in white, green, or plum scrubs who disconnected patients by night, failing to give medications on time, falling asleep or going to drink. About those messengers of mortal death who instead of preparing a smooth way, impose the stoniest. They made it all the more difficult: an emotional test, a test of lucidity and endurance.

To More Deaths, more glasses raised in secret toasts.

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Translation Tuesday: “The School” by Mireille Jean-Gilles

I could imagine a thousand voices, a thousand children’s voices: “teacher, teacher,” “hi, teacher,” “sorry, teacher,” “I love you, teacher,”

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you an extraordinary new work of microfiction by the Guianese poet Mireille Jean-Gilles. Stranded in the central yard of a nameless school, Jean-Gilles’ narrator is confounded by the ugliness and hostility of the buildings’ facades. They assume that the institution they face must be a factory or a prison, so at odds are they with the purpose of a school, and the emotional lives of young people. Yet even as the school is an institute of dehumanization, it still carries prefigurative possibilities: “I sensed that each class must have been an oasis of happiness, full of colors, full of children’s drawings, of colors, from dreamy blue to impulsive purple, a thousand childish colors.” The narrator’s voice spills over with questions in the face of this contradiction, phrases and clauses accumulating one after the other, piled paratactically like the “wildly green leaves” of the mango tree in the schoolyard. They are adrift in this strange place, yet ultimately their dislocation is a source of peace, as they resign themself to the paradox of beauty emerging in a hostile world: “everything was one and its opposite at the same time . . . so I searched no more, just let myself be carried away by the swell of waves.” Read on!

It wasn’t a factory, or a prison, although you might have thought so, it was immense, full of cells, full of rooms, in fact, finally, it seemed to me that it was only a mundane school, it wasn’t the end of a shift, it was only the end of classes, classes for shrill little children or mocking older ones. The prison, sorry, the school, had in its center a navel, an immense navel that must undoubtedly have been what’s called a schoolyard, the schoolyard was finally mute since within ten minutes the entire school had emptied, the signal had been finally given to clear out, it was five o’clock.

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Principle of Decision: Translation from Italian

How does one evaluate the works of a writer who paradoxically championed women’s rights and supported an ultra-patriarchal regime?

Principle of Decision takes a close look at the manifold, careful decisions made by translators in their interpretations. Each participating translator is given the same excerpt of a text to render into English, revealing the various incarnations that can stem from even a single word. In this edition, Catherine Xinxin Yu presents a piece from the Italian writer Ada Negri.

When I was casually browsing at a book fair in 2023, my eyes were caught by two descriptors on the back of a tiny claret booklet featuring Ada Negri’s works: ‘feminist literature ante litteram’ and ‘twice nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature’. I had to find out who this Ada Negri was.

Ada Negri (1870-1945), born in the northern Italian city of Lodi, grew up in a working-class milieu and began earning a living as a schoolteacher from the age of seventeen. She published her first poem La nenia materna (Mother’s Lullaby) in 1888, her first poetry collection Fatalità (Fatality) in 1892, and continued to garner literary acclaim through the 1910s. Her gaze was directed outwards, encompassing the struggles of the Italian working class of which she was a part, but also turned inwards, voicing her intense emotional turmoil as a woman, a lover, and a mother. At the same time, she actively participated in socialist projects like the Lega Femminile di Milano and co-founded the Asilo Mariuccia in 1902 for at-risk women and minors.

In 1917, Negri published her immensely successful short story collection, Le solitarie (Solitary Women), from which the excerpt below is drawn. Eighteen grayscale character studies provide ‘humble glimpses into the lives of women who fight alone: alone despite family, alone despite love, alone due to faults of their own, of men, or of destiny’, as the author wrote in the book’s preface (translated from the Italian). This collection was groundbreaking in its focus on the tribulations of lower-class women and unflinchingly tackles taboo subjects from female sexuality and abortion, to marital unhappiness and the lack of care for the elderly.

So far, so good, right? But Negri was also a controversial figure who achieved her status partly due to her staunch support of Mussolini’s fascist regime. In the 1890s, she befriended socialists active in Milan, such as Filippo Turati, the Russian-born feminist Anna Kuliscioff, Nobel peace prize winner Teodoro Moneta—and Benito Mussolini, who identified as a socialist at the time. But by the outbreak of WWI, as Mussolini’s break with socialism gave way to his avowed fascism, Negri definitively sided with Mussolini’s bellicose patriotism and distanced herself from the antimilitarist democratic socialism of Turati and Kuliscioff. She would go on to win the Premio Mussolini in 1930, become the first and only woman to be admitted into the Accademia d’Italia in 1940 (a short-lived hall of fame for intellectuals in fascist Italy, if you will), and follow government directives in her long-standing collaborations with major newspapers until her death in 1945. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: “Ode to Wood” by Pablo Neruda

I carry around the world / on my body, on my clothes, / scent of sawmill, / aroma of red boards.

For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poem by the inimitable Pablo Neruda, translated from the Spanish by Wally Swist. Oscillating between the grand and the mundane, but never stinting on lavish detail, the poet draws an entire world out of his relationship to wood—the elemental matter from which so much of our world, from houses and coffins to ships and railroad ties, is fashioned. Dwelling in particular on the physical scene of trees being felled, Neruda not only pays vivid homage to the labor of woodcutting, but also illustrates the intimate connection between the world of human industry and the natural environment from which it arises—a connection that is more salient than ever, in our current age of ecological collapse. Read on!

Oh, how much I know
and recognize
among all things
wood is
my best friend.
I carry around the world
on my body, on my clothes,
scent of sawmill,
aroma of red boards.
My chest, my senses
feel impregnated
in my childhood
of falling trees,
of great forests
of future construction. READ MORE…

Translation Tuesday: An Excerpt from Aruanda by Virgília Ferrão

“Witchcraft?” Pedro Lucas’ almost guttural voice catches in his throat in confusion.

This Translation Tuesday, we are honored to share with you an excerpt from the latest novel by the first woman to win Mozambique’s Prémio Literário 10 de Novembro literary prize. Here to tell you about this riveting tale of parallel love stories that traverse centuries is translator Beth Hickling-Moore herself: “Aruanda fluctuates between two stories, the first set in the 19th Century and the other in the 21st. In each story, prejudice, conflict and environmental destruction are destined to repeat themselves. In 1890, black servant Carina de Sousa is accused of witchcraft by the plantation overlord, along with her mother, Lina. What nobody knows is that Carina is in a secret and forbidden relationship with Pedro Lucas, the son of Carina’s boss, the captain. A scuffle ensues and Pedro Lucas is killed, leaving Carina pregnant with his mestizo child. The story then jumps back and forth between Carina’s story and the present day, in which professor Daniel de Barros —along with student Maria Cristina—embarks on a restoration project in the Aruanda region. As both stories develop in tandem, we discover that Daniel and Maria Cristina are in fact reincarnations of Pedro Lucas and Carina. As the professor and his students fight to save the Aruanda region from property developers who are destroying the landscapes just as the plantations did centuries before, we realise that Daniel and Maria’s love is similarly ill-fated. While Aruanda reflects on the country’s issues of prejudice, conflict and environmental destruction past and present, the novel does not feature the word ‘Mozambique’ at all: much like Isabel Allende’s Casa de los Espiritus is an allegory of national history without ever naming names, Aruanda takes place in fictional Aruanda, named after the Afro-Brazilian spiritual citadel of the same name, and considers whether postcolonial, post civil-war Mozambique is indeed a version of this utopia, or whether it is controlled by the same forces as it always has been. Aruanda will be of interest to a contemporary readership because it falls within the spheres of climate fiction, science fiction and race writing. Recent big-budget film and TV adaptations of novels such as The End We Start From and Leave the World Behind demonstrate the popularity of such genres, but very little climate fiction is published from the African continent, one of the regions most affected by the climate crisis. The book is also reminiscent of Octavia Butler’s classic, Kindred, in its historical episodes and supernatural elements.”

Aruanda is silent. Its solitude has risen, its melancholy dripping into the sea. I’ve never been to the Indian Ocean, but this is how I picture it: deep and still like the tombs of my ancestors who traversed its waters. Its quietude stretches right up to the large house belonging to the Prazo overlords: Captain Major Bento Noronha and his wife, Dona Luísa.

The dinner table is laid just so, just how Dona Luísa likes it. Tonight we are hosting young Doctor Fernando, the family physician. After coming to see Sargeant Pedro Lucas, he has been invited to stay for dinner.

Captain Bento and Doctor Fernando’s conversation lingers on banalities as the sweet scent of lilies tickles my nostrils. I inhale deeply and see Dona Luísa descending the granite steps, carrying a glass vase holding the flowers.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Doctor Fernando.”

“An absolute honour, Madam,” he responds politely, nodding in reverence to his hostess.

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Translation Tuesday: Excerpt from “To see a woman . . .” by Annemarie Schwarzenbach

we were meant to meet one another at the stranger’s threshold, along this obscure and melancholic borderline of awareness

This Translation Tuesday, in honor of Pride Month, we present a fiction excerpt from the desk of Swiss novelist Annemarie Schwarzenbach, written ninety-four years ago and now translated by Natalie Mariko. In these impressionistic scenes, the nameless, genderless narrator (a thinly-veiled insert for Schwarzenbach herself) is drawn continually to the thought of Ena Bernstein, their unseen fellow guest at an alpine ski-lodge. In Schwarzenbach’s hands, the gossipy high-society atmosphere of the ski-lodge gives way to a quasi-mystical perception of the natural world, which is reinforced by the ineluctable “oceanic unknown” of the narrator’s desire for women. “The ardent love which had always tethered me to this landscape grew in a violent way,” Schwarzenbach writes, as the narrator’s longing for Ena refracts the mundanity of everyday life into something beautiful and strange––a powerful reminder of how our desires can enrich the world. Read on!

To see a woman: just for a second, just in the short space of a look, and then to lose her again somewhere in the dark of a hall, behind a door I’m not allowed to open—but to see a woman and in the same moment to feel that she also saw me, that her eyes hung puzzled, as if we were meant to meet one another at the stranger’s threshold, along this obscure and melancholic borderline of awareness . . .

Yes, to feel in that moment how she also faltered, almost painfully halted in the hall of her thoughts, as if her nerves contracted, being touched by mine. And if I wasn’t tired then I wouldn’t have been bewildered by the day’s memories: still, I saw fields of snow, and thereupon the long evening shadows; saw the bar throngs, girls passing by to be sloughed like puppets from their partners, carelessly laughing back over their thin shoulders, the blustering jazz starting alongside their laughter. And before it blew again I took refuge in a small corner, Li waving there, her little face quivering white under high, shaved brows. She slid her glass back to me—stubbornly forcing me to drink the whole thing—and laid her slender hands on the Norwegian’s neck. She floated past dancing, and he hung with his eyes at her lips.

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Translation Tuesday: from “A Minimal Unhappiness” by Carmen Verde

Unhappiness is not only a state of the spirit... No. Unhappiness is a place, a real, physical place, a dark room that we decide to stay in.

This Translation Tuesday, we are excited to present the English debut of Carmen Verde, a finalist for the Premio Strega in 2023 for her very first novel, A Minimal Unhappiness, which we excerpt here in Katie Shireen Assef’s impeccable translation. Verde’s narrator is a habitué of sadness and madness, an accustomed yet discerning sufferer. If unhappiness is a room, as she claims with some authority, then hers is lush-black, Gothically plangent, and filled with lugubrious relatives.

God is the Highest. God is the Most High.
Isn’t that terrifying?

 

***

In photographs we’re always sitting close together, my mother and I: she, pale, uneasy, with a look that seems to apologize for itself.

In those days, she still prayed to God that my bones would lengthen. God had nothing to do with it, though. If it took stubbornness for a girl not to grow, I had more than enough.

I never thought I was ugly. And I never doubted that I resembled my mother, even if I didn’t have her thin ankles, her elegant proportions. Ours was an elusive, an indecipherable resemblance: the sort of resemblance that pierces the heart of those who manage to recognize it.

 

***

In my five years of primary school, she came to pick me up every afternoon. The window of my classroom looked out onto the street, so that between my desk and the bench where she sat waiting, there couldn’t have been more than a hundred fifty feet as the crow flies. I was happy when I saw her on the other side of the glass, even if I was soon overcome by the fear—the terrible certainty, even—that she would decide to go and leave me there, alone. I never believed I had a right to my mother’s presence.

In winter, on windy days, the dust from the street would cling to her silk stockings, to her camel-colored coat, to her hair that was so straight and smooth it seemed like velvet. On the first warm days in June, she would stand beneath the shade of the linden tree at the center of the piazza. If she stayed, I told myself, it meant she loved me. I couldn’t see her from where I sat at my desk (the shutters were closed to block out the sun), and so the fear would slowly build up inside me until, five minutes before the lesson ended, I had lost all hope of finding her. And yet there she would be, still in the same spot. Yes, Sofia Vivier was a good mother.

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Translation Tuesday: From “After Celeste” by Maude Nepveu-Villeneuve

“It’s no big deal, it happens to one in five pregnancies.”

This Translation Tuesday, we bring you a poignant excerpt from the latest novel by Québécois author Maude Nepveu-Villeneuve, translated into English by Kate Lofthouse. In plangent, methodically-detailed vignettes, Nepveu-Villeneuve’s narrator describes her return to Moreau, the village of her childhood. In the wake of a recent tragedy, her perception of the world around her comes unmoored; she feels as if she has never left Moreau, as if her years away were only a nightmare, yet Moreau also seems unreal, “a figment of my imagination.” Struggling to engage with the world as a thing separate from herself, the narrator spirals into her past, moving from distant memories of childhood vacations abroad towards the cause of her present alienation.

     I’ll just . . . go home to my sad life and be miserable forever.
—Maddy Thorson, Celeste

Summer is darker than winter on my parents’ street, once green leaves fill the branches of Moreau’s trees and their ancient foliage has cast its shadow over the houses. My parents escape in search of sunshine every year, to Spain, Morocco, Belize, anywhere the July heat is more oppressive than it is on their little shaded street in a small village lost up in the north, a little town I never name when people ask me where I come from, because it doesn’t mean anything to anyone, so I always go back to the closest big city saying around there, and people nod and shrug, because even that city is a minor one, insignificant, one never mentioned in weather reports and which people struggle to picture.

They took me with them when I was little. The three of us went, a close-knit and indestructible family unit with the same sturdy blonde heads and indistinguishable laughter, we fled the shade cast by the old trees over the bungalows and the lawns, and we walked along the shores of Caribbean islands or through the streets of Cairo or Terceira. I would have preferred the cool air of our little street, riding my bike around the block for hours, napping in the hammock in the backyard, drawing on the pavement with Laure, my neighbour from across the way, my best friend. But my parents had other ideas, we left at the end of the school year and came back at the beginning of August, in time to buy supplies and new clothes.

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