by Frank Wynne
The straw-roofed hut was low, with a narrow door.
‘Do our people believe in magic?’ asked Hershel.
‘It can’t do us any harm,’ said Zeitel, taking hold of his sleeve. ‘Let’s go in, children.’
‘Quiet, quiet,’ a man greeted us at the door. ‘Take your shoes off, take your shoes off. It’s forbidden to wear shoes in a holy place.’
Barefoot, we stood outside the room. Zeitel held on to the three of us.
‘People have come,’ said the doorkeeper. ‘They’ve taken their shoes off. Shall I let them in?’
‘In a while,’ answered a muffled voice from the large room.
After that we heard, ‘It is permitted now.’
The doorkeeper placed himself at the head of our group, and said, ‘Follow me.’ We walked close together, like links in a taut chain, the way we used to walk on those nights when we left the bunker to hunt for potatoes. We heard the sound of bells, and of wheels, and of a great rushing back and forth. We sensed the darkness growing deeper; in a moment we would be in its dumb heart.
Two candlesticks stood in a comer, the candles flickering.
‘Now cover your faces,’ said the magician, ‘and repeat after me.’
I do not remember what he told us to say, but I remember that we repeated the words loudly and the room was full of trembling and sound.
‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘I have sanctified you and you may see visions from the other worlds.’
One by one they ascended the stage, shrouded in blue, and we recognized them by their rustling and the way they lifted their necks.
Zeitel broke away from us, shouting, ‘We are orphaned, children, we are orphaned.’ We could not hold her.
‘I cannot show you anything with all this noise,’ said the magician.
Hershel took off his caftan and said, ‘Here’s the pay of your magic.’
‘This is not magic,’ the sorcerer called after him.
We pulled Zeitel outside. Hershel stood bare-armed, the bones of his body sticking out. We did not see Zeitel’s face. She covered it with her fists and shouted, ‘Children, we are orphans, children, we are orphans.’
Outside, the winter lay cold. Clouds rent the huge silence, the trees were hung with a gleaming red that stained the premature blossoms. When Zeitel caught sight of Hershel’s bare body, she started up and said, ‘Where’s your caftan? Put it on quick, you’ll catch your death of cold.’
That night Zeitel awoke and said, ‘Did you see, did you see?’ She was having a bad dream.
Max took off his coat and said, ‘Hershel, let’s share this.’
The night deepened, the dogs in the village were awake and howling, Zeitel kept raising her head and covering Hershel. The darkness pressed down on us.
Zeitel said, ‘If anybody sees Reb Isaac—my heart tells me he will come—don’t let him go to that place, God forbid.’
In the morning we saw a man ploughing in the distance, and a woman walking behind him. Zeitel said, ‘I see Berel.’
‘No, it’s a peasant you see,’ said Hershel.
The spring sun passed through the clouds. Max’s face shone white. Zeitel became herself again, and said, ‘If only we were all together once more, the way we used to be in the bunker, and Reb Isaac and Berel were with us … if only … I could walk to the end of the world.’
BEFORE THE BATH
Ismail Kadaré
Translated from the Albanian by Peter Constantine
Ismail Kadaré (1936–) is an Albanian novelist, poet, essayist and playwright. He has been a leading literary figure in Albania since the 1960s. He focused on poetry until the publication of his first novel, The General of the Dead Army, which made him famous inside and outside of Albania. His works have been published in about forty-five languages. In 2005 he became the first winner of the Man Booker International Prize. After offending the authorities with a politically satirical poem in 1975, he was forbidden to publish for three years. During the 1990s and 2000s he was offered multiple times to become President of Albania, but declined.
He approached the tub of hot water, his eyes clouding with pleasure (how many times had he dreamt of this tub in his cold tent on the plains!), and just as he dipped one foot in the water he turned and looked at his wife, who was walking a few steps behind him. Her face still wore the flickering smile, but, even more than by the smile, his attention was caught by the metallic sheen of the object twinkling beneath the fabric his wife was carrying in her hands. Although his whole body was moving towards the bath, climbing into the tub, his curiosity still made him turn his head to see what the metallic object might be. (Perhaps during his long absence new utensils had been invented — even for bathing.) At that very moment he saw his wife almost above him, ready to cast the unfurled fabric over him (“What is this crazed woman doing?” he thought. “Who has ever heard of a man drying himself before a bath instead of after?”), and an instant later, before he was even seized by the terror of the thought that the fabric looked more like a net, he felt his arms entangled, and in the same instant saw the short axe in his wife’s hands. The pain on the right side of his neck and the first spray of blood seemed to coincide with the shout of “Murder!” which he heard as if from the mouth of another.
He found himself outside the tub again, as if to amend an error, and, as before, he dipped one foot in the water, then saw his wife who was walking a few steps behind him, saw the flash of the axe beneath the fabric and, unable to make out what was happening, before he was even seized by the terror of the fabric turning into a net that bound his arms, he heard the first slash, and the blood reddened the water.
He found himself outside the tub again, as if to amend something, but this time slowly, as if he were coolly trying to resolve a misunderstanding. He approached the tub—the hot steam made everything seem more distant—his eyes clouding with pleasure (how many times had he dreamt of this tub in his cold army tent, when frantically, covered in grime, he had made love to a captive!), and just as he dipped one foot in the water he turned and looked at his wife, as if to assure himself that happiness was very near. Her face still wore that flickering smile, like a flickering, shifting mask, but, even more than by the smile, his attention was caught by the metallic sheen of the object twinkling coldly beneath the fabric his wife was carrying in her hands. And yet he thought as intensely of the love he would be making to her very soon as he thought that this metal—or rather hoped that this metal—had something to do with one of her surprises, those sudden and pleasurable surprises when he returned after long separations … At that very moment he saw his wife above him and the fabric turning into a net, his arms caught, the axe, the slash, the spray of blood, the cry of “Murder!” all happening in such quick succession that they intermingled and became one, until he found himself again outside the tub, moving towards her, found his wife walking a few steps behind him with the fabric in her hands, and this time the memory of the tent on the plains, his wife’s mask-like smile, the flashing of the axe as it hit the water, all intermingled with lightning speed, making way for the slowness that was to follow. Before he saw his wife, he saw her shadow on the water, and then, when he saw her holding the unfurled fabric, he wanted to say to her “Darling, what is this new little trick of yours?” But it was just at this moment when the fabric took on a new guise, with nodes and nerves like those on the wings of bats, and the fabric slowly flew over his head, and the closer it came, the more clearly he saw that it was a net, and before he even felt his arms grow numb as it touched them, before the axe hit him in the neck, he said to himself “This is the end,” and from the moment of this thought to the moment the blood reddened the water it seemed as if an interminable time had passed.
He found himself outside the tub again, moving towards her, as he had a million times before, experiencing with different rhythms this final fragment, these last twenty-two seconds of his life. This was the hell of Agamemnon of the House of Atreus, murdered by his wife on the first da
y of his return from the Plains of Troy, at thirteen hundred hours and twenty minutes, March 31, in the year eleven hundred and ninety-nine before our era.
THE BREADNUT AND THE BREADFRUIT
Maryse Condé
Translated from the French by Richard Philcox
Maryse Condé (1937–). Born and raised in Guadeloupe, Condé studied English at the Sorbonne and at the age of twenty-two, taught variously in Guinea, Senegal and Ghana. Her first novel was published in 1976, and since then she has written many novels and plays. She is a scholar of Francophone literature and Professor Emerita of French at Columbia University and now divides her time between New York and Guadeloupe. She is best known for her novel Segu which was awarded the Prix de l’Académie française in 1988.
I met my father when I was ten years old.
My mother had never uttered his name in my presence, and I had ended up thinking that I owed my life to her unbending will-power alone. My mother walked staunchly along life’s straight and narrow path. Apparently she only strayed once to follow the unknown face of my father, who managed to seduce her before handing her back to a life of duty and religion. She was a tall woman and so severe she seemed to me to be devoid of beauty. Her forehead disappeared under a white and violet headtie. Her breasts vanished in a shapeless black dress. On her feet were a pair of plimsolls carefully whitened with blanc d’Espagne. She was laundress at the hospital in Capesterre, Marie-Galante, and every morning she used to get up at four o’clock to clean the house, cook, wash, iron, and goodness knows what else. At twenty to seven she would open the heavy doors after shouting:
‘Sandra! I’m off!’
Twenty minutes later, our neighbor Sandra hammered on the dividing wall and yelled: ‘Etiennise! Time to get up!’
Without further ado I would sit up on the mattress that I laid out each evening beside my mother’s mahogany bed and reflect on the sullen day that lay ahead. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday were as alike as two pins. Things were different on Thursdays and Sundays because of catechism and Sunday school.
So when I was ten my mother bent her tall figure in two and came and sat down opposite me.
‘Your father’s a dog who’ll die like a dog in the trash heap of his life. The fact is I have to send you to the lycée in Pointe-à-Pitre. I haven’t got enough money to put you in lodgings. Who would lodge you, come to that? So I shall have to ask him.’
In one go I learned that I had passed my entrance exams, that I was going to leave my island backwater, and that I was going to live far from my mother. My happiness was so overwhelming that, at first, words failed me. Then I stammered out in a feigned sorrowful tone of voice: ‘You’ll be all by yourself here.’
My mother gave me a look that implied she didn’t believe a word. I know now why I thought I hated my mother. Because she was alone. Never the weight of a man in her bed between the sheets drawn tight like those of a first communicant. Never the raucous laughter of a man to enlighten her evenings. Never a good fight in the early hours of the dawn! Our neighbors in tears would walk around with bruises, bumps, and split lips that spoke of pain and voluptuousness. But my mother, she modelled herself along the lines of Saint Thérèse de Lisieux and Bernadette Soubirou.
At that time—I’m talking about the end of the fifties—the town of Capesterre numbered a good many souls, how many I don’t know exactly. Everything seemed drowsy. The teachers who had us recite ‘the River Loire has its source in the Mont Gerbier-de-Jonc’, the priests who had us stumble through ‘One God in three distinct persons’, and the town crier beating his drum ‘Oyez, oyez!’
Only the sea, a crazed woman with eyes of amethyst, leapt in places over the rocks and tried to take men and animals alike by the throat.
Three times a week a boat left Grand Bourg, Marie-Galante, for the actual island of Guadeloupe. It was loaded with black piglets, poultry, goats, jerricans of 55% rum, matrons with huge buttocks and children in tears. One late September morning my mother made the sign of the cross on my forehead, kissed me sparingly, and entrusted me and my few belongings to the captain. Hardly had we left the jetty on which the crowd grew smaller and smaller than my joy gave way to a feeling of panic. The sea opened up like the jaws of a monster bent on swallowing us. We were sucked into the abyss, then vomited out in disgust before being dragged back again. This merry-go-round lasted an hour and a half. Women with rosaries in hand prayed to the Virgin Mary. Finally we entered the mauve waters of the harbor with Pointe-à-Pitre shining as a backdrop.
*
I spent three days without seeing my father, who was away ‘on business’ in Martinique. In his absence I got to know my stepmother, a small woman draped with jewelry and as rigid as my mother, as well as my half-sister, who was almost blonde in a pleated skirt. She ignored me disdainfully.
*
When he leaned against the door of the cubby hole I had been allotted in the attic, it seemed to me that the day began to dawn on my life. He was a fairly dark-skinned mulatto whose curly hair had begun to grey. A web of wrinkles surrounded his dark grey eyes. ‘What a damned Negress your mother is, even so!’ he laughed in a sparkle of teeth. ‘She didn’t even tell me you were born and now point blank she writes to make me “face up to my responsibilities”. But I have to admit you’re the spitting image of your father!’
I was terribly flattered I resembled such a handsome gentleman! Etienne Bellot, my father, came from an excellent family. His father had been a public notary. His elder brother had taken over his father’s practice and his sister had married a magistrate. When at the age of twenty he had failed part one of the baccalauréat for the fourth time he had the brilliant idea of getting Larissa Valère, the only daughter of the big ironmonger on Market Square, with child. He was married off therefore in great pomp at the Cathedral of Saint Pierre and Saint Paul, four months before his daughter was due to be born, then appointed to replace his father-in-law who was getting on in years. Not for long! It was soon discovered that the daily takings of the ironmongery, substantial as they were, vanished into thin air among the men with whom he lost at cards in the bars of the Carenage district, the women he bedded just about everywhere, and the professional cadgers. Larissa therefore took her seat at the till and stayed there from that day on.
I was not the only illegitimate child of Etienne’s, even though I was the only resident one. Oh no! After Sunday school there was a stream of boys and girls of every age and every color who came to greet their begetter and receive from the hand of Larissa a brand new ten franc note that she took out of a box specially reserved for this purpose. The stream dried up for lunch and siesta only to resume in greater force from four o’clock in the afternoon until night fall. My father, who never moved from his bed on Sunday, the Lord’s Day, kept his bedroom door firmly closed, never letting a smile or a caress filter through.
In fact nobody found grace in his heart except for Jessica, my almost blonde half-sister whose grey eyes, the very image of her father’s, seldom looked up from her twopenny novels. I soon learned that one of Etienne’s mistresses had maliciously struck Larissa down with a mysterious illness that had laid to rest two other legitimate children—both boys—and that Jessica was the couple’s greatest treasure.
Larissa must have been very lovely. Now gone to seed, there remained the fern-colored eyes behind her glasses and teeth of pearl that her smile sometimes revealed. The only times she left the house were to sit straight-back at the till or to go to confession or mass. Up at four like my mother, Larissa, who had three domestics, would let no one iron her husband’s drill suits, shirts, underwear, and socks. She polished his shoes herself. She prepared his coffee and served him his breakfast, the only meal he took at a fixed time. All day long he came and went, and his place remained set for hours on end while the ice turned to water in the little bucket next to his glass where the flies drowned themselves in despair. When he was at home, somebody would be waiting for him in the sitting room, on the pavement, at th
e wheel of a car, and he would hurry off to some mysterious rendezvous from which he returned late at night, always stumbling on the fifth stair that led to the first floor. I don’t quite know how he became interested in me. For weeks he scarcely gave me a look and found it quite natural for me to be treated hardly better than a domestic, clad in Jessica’s old dresses, wearing a worn-out pair of sandals and studying from her old books that were literally falling to pieces. On Sundays when Larissa was doing the distribution she used to give me two ten franc notes and I went to the ‘Renaissance’ to watch the American films in technicolor.
One day I was sitting in the yard studying for a poetry recitation. I remember it was a poem by Emile Verhaeren:
Le bois brûlé se fendillait en braises rouges
Et deux par deux, du bout d’une planche, les gouges
Dans le ventre des fours engouffraient les pains mous.
He loomed up beside me amidst a warm smell of rum, cigarettes, and Jean-Marie Farina eau de Cologne and tore the book from my hands.
‘For God’s sake! The rubbish those people teach you! Do you understand anything?’
I shook my head.
‘Wait there. I’ve got just what you need.’
He plunged inside the house, stopping Larissa who was already busy laying the table: ‘No, honey dear, I’ve no time to eat.’ Then he came back brandishing a little thin book: ‘Now read that instead!’ Larissa intervened and firmly took it out of his hands: ‘Etienne! Don’t fill that child’s head with rubbish!’
I never did know what book my father wanted me to read, but strangely enough, from that day on the ice was broken. He got into the habit of stopping in the dining room near the corner of the table where I did my homework and leafing through my books, commenting: ‘The Alps! What’s got into them to teach you about the Alps? I bet you don’t even know the names of the mountains in this country of ours?’
‘There’s the Soufrière!’
