Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  His father’s car is a 1970 Ford Mustang. At six-thirty in the morning they get into the car and head out of the city. The city is Mexico City, and the year in which B and his father leave Mexico City for a short holiday is 1975.

  Overall, the trip goes smoothly. Leaving the city both father and son feel cold, but as they leave the high valley behind and begin to descend into the state of Guerrero, the temperature rises and they have to take off their sweaters and open the windows. B, who is inclined to melancholy (or so he likes to think), is at first completely absorbed in contemplating the landscape, but after a few hours the mountains and forests become monotonous and he starts reading a book instead.

  Before they get to Acapulco, B’s father pulls up in front of a roadside café. The café serves iguana. Shall we try it? he suggests. The iguanas are alive and they hardly move when B’s father goes over to look at them. B leans against the mudguard of the Mustang, watching him. Without waiting for an answer, B’s father orders a portion of iguana for himself and one for his son. Only then does B move away from the car. He approaches the open-air eating area – four tables under a canvas shade that is swaying slightly in the gentle breeze – and sits down at the table furthest from the highway. B’s father orders two beers. Father and son have rolled up their sleeves and unbuttoned their shirts. Both are wearing light-coloured shirts. The waiter, by contrast, is wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt and doesn’t seem bothered by the heat.

  Going to Acapulco? asks the waiter. B’s father nods. They are the only customers at the café. Cars whiz past on the bright highway. B’s father gets up and goes out the back. For a moment B thinks his father is going to the toilet, but then he realises he has gone to the kitchen to see how they cook the iguanas. The waiter follows him without a word. Then B hears them talking. First his father, then the man’s voice, and finally the voice of a woman B can’t see. B’s forehead is beaded with sweat. His glasses are misted and dirty. He takes them off and cleans them with the corner of his shirt. When he puts them back on he notices his father watching him from the kitchen. He can see only his father’s face and part of his shoulder, the rest is hidden by a red curtain with black dots, and B has the intermittent impression that this curtain separates not only the kitchen from the eating area but also one time from another.

  Then B looks away and his gaze returns to the book lying on the table. It is a book of poetry. An anthology of French surrealist poets translated into Spanish by the Argentine surrealist Aldo Pellegrini. B has been reading this book for two days. He likes it. He likes the photos of the poets. The photo of Unik, the one of Desnos, the photos of Artaud and Crevel. The book is thick and covered with transparent plastic. It wasn’t covered by B (who never covers his books), but by a particularly fastidious friend. So B looks away from his father, opens the book at random and comes face to face with Gui Rosey, the photo of Gui Rosey and his poems, and when he looks up again his father’s head has disappeared.

  The heat is stifling. B would be more than happy to go back to Mexico City, but he isn’t going back, at least not yet, he knows that. Soon his father is sitting next to him and they are both eating iguana with chilli sauce and drinking more beer. The waiter in the black shirt has turned on a transistor radio, and now some vaguely tropical music is blending with the noises of the jungle and the noise of the cars passing on the highway. The iguana tastes like chicken. It’s tougher than chicken, says B, not entirely convinced. It’s tasty, says his father, and orders another portion. They have cinnamon coffee. The man in the black shirt serves the iguana, but the woman from the kitchen brings out the coffee. She is young, almost as young as B; she is wearing white shorts and a yellow blouse with white flowers printed on it, flowers B doesn’t recognise, perhaps because they don’t exist. As they drink their coffee, B feels nauseous, but he says nothing. He smokes and looks at the canvas shade, barely moving, as if weighed down by a narrow puddle of rainwater from the last storm. But it can’t be that, thinks B. What are you looking at? asks his father. The shade, says B. It’s like a vein. But he doesn’t say the bit about the vein, he only thinks it.

  They arrive in Acapulco as night is falling. For a while they drive up and down the avenues by the sea with the windows wide open and the breeze ruffling their hair. They stop at a bar and go in for a drink. This time B’s father orders tequila. B thinks for a moment. Then he orders tequila too. The bar is modern and has air-conditioning. B’s father talks to the waiter and asks him about hotels near the beach. By the time they get back to the Mustang a few stars are visible and for the first time that day B’s father looks tired. Even so, they visit a couple of hotels, which for one reason or another are unsatisfactory, before finding one that will do. The hotel is called La Brisa: it’s small, a stone’s throw from the beach, and has a swimming-pool. B’s father likes the hotel. So does B. It’s the off season, so the hotel is almost empty and the prices are reasonable. The room they are given has two single beds and a small bathroom with a shower. The only window looks on to the terrace, where the swimming-pool is. B’s father would have preferred a sea view. The air-conditioning, they soon discover, is out of order. But the room is fairly cool, so they don’t complain. They make themselves at home: each opens up his suitcase and puts his clothes in the wardrobe. B leaves his books on the bedside table. They change their shirts. B’s father takes a cold shower while B just washes his face, and when they are ready they go out to dinner.

  The reception desk is manned by a short guy with teeth like a rabbit. He’s young and seems friendly. He recommends a restaurant near the hotel. B’s father asks if there’s somewhere lively nearby. B understands what his father means. The receptionist doesn’t. A place with a bit of action, says B’s father. A place where you can find girls, says B. Ah, says the receptionist. For a moment B and his father stand there, without speaking. The receptionist crouches down, disappearing behind the counter, and reappears with a card, which he holds out. B’s father looks at the card, asks if the establishment is reliable, then extracts a note from his wallet, which the receptionist is quick to intercept.

  But after dinner, they go straight back to the hotel.

  The next day, B wakes up very early. As quietly as possible he takes a shower, brushes his teeth, puts on his bathing suit, and leaves the room. There is no one in the hotel dining room, so B decides to go out for breakfast. The hotel is on a street that runs straight down to the beach, which is empty except for a boy hiring out paddle boards. B asks him how much it costs for an hour. The boy quotes a price that sounds acceptable, so B hires a board and pushes off into the sea. Opposite the beach is a little island, towards which he steers his craft. At first he has some trouble, but soon he gets the hang of it. At this time of day the sea is crystal clear and B thinks he can see red fishes under the board, about a foot and a half long, swimming towards the beach as he paddles towards the island.

  It takes exactly fifteen minutes for him to get from the beach to the island. B doesn’t know this, because he is not wearing a watch, and for him time slows down. The crossing seems to last an eternity. At the last minute, waves rear unexpectedly, impeding his approach. The sand is noticeably different from that of the hotel beach; back there it was a golden, tawny colour, perhaps because of the time of day (though B doesn’t think so), while here it is a dazzling white, so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it.

  B stops paddling and just sits there, at the mercy of the waves, which begin to carry him slowly away from the island. By the time he finally reacts, the board has drifted halfway back. Having ascertained this, B decides to turn around. The return is calm and uneventful. When he gets to the beach, the boy who hires out the boards comes up and asks if he had a problem. Not at all, says B. An hour later B returns to the hotel without having had breakfast and finds his father sitting in the dining room with a cup of coffee and a plate in front of him on which are scattered the remains of toast and eggs.

  The following hours are hazy. They drive around aimlessly, watc
hing people from the car. Sometimes they get out to have a cold drink or an ice cream. In the afternoon, on the beach, while his father is stretched out asleep in a deck chair, B rereads Gui Rosey’s poems and the brief story of his life or his death.

  One day a group of surrealists arrives in the south of France. They try to get visas for the United States. The north and the west of the country are occupied by the Germans. The south is under the aegis of Pétain. Day after day, the US Consulate delays its decision. Among the members of the group are Breton, Tristan Tzara, and Péret, but there are also less famous figures. Gui Rosey is one of them. In the photo he has the look of a minor poet, thinks B. He is ugly, he is impeccably dressed, he looks like an unimportant public servant or a bank clerk. Up to this point, a few disagreements, but nothing out of the ordinary, thinks B. The surrealists gather every afternoon at a café by the port. They make plans and chat; Rosey is always there. But one day (one afternoon, B imagines), he fails to appear. At first, he isn’t missed. He is a minor poet and no one pays much attention to minor poets. After a few days, however, the others start to worry. At the pension where he is staying, no one knows what has happened; his suitcases and books are there, undisturbed, so he clearly hasn’t tried to leave without paying (as guests at certain pensions on the Côte d’Azur are prone to do). His friends try to find him. They visit all the hospitals and police stations in the area. No one can tell them anything. One morning the visas arrive. Most of them board a ship and set off for the United States. Those who remain, who will never get visas, soon forget about Rosey and his disappearance; people are disappearing all the time, in large numbers, and they have to look out for themselves.

  That night, after dinner at the hotel, B’s father suggests they go and find a bit of action. B looks at his father. He is blond (B is dark), his eyes are grey, and he is still in good shape. He looks happy and ready to have a good time. What sort of action? asks B, who knows perfectly well what his father is referring to. The usual kind, says B’s father. Drinking and women. For a while B says nothing, as if he were pondering a reply. His father looks at him. The look might seem inquisitive, but in fact it is only affectionate. Finally B says he’s not in the mood for sex. It’s not just about getting laid, says his father, we’ll go and see, have a few drinks, and enjoy ourselves with some friends. What friends, says B, we don’t know anyone here. You always make friends when you’re out for a ride. The expression ‘out for a ride’ makes B think of horses. When he was seven his father bought him a horse. Where did my horse come from? asks B. This takes his father completely by surprise. What horse? he asks. The one you bought me when I was a kid, says B, in Chile. Ah, Hullabaloo, says his father, smiling. He was from the island of Chiloé, he says, then after a moment’s reflection he starts talking about brothels again. The way he talks about them, they could be dance halls, thinks B. Then they both fall silent.

  That night they don’t go anywhere.

  While his father is sleeping, B goes out on to the terrace to read by the swimming-pool. There is no one there apart from him. The terrace is clean and empty. From his table B can see part of the reception area, where the receptionist from the night before is standing at the counter reading something or doing the accounts. B reads the French surrealists, he reads Gui Rosey. To tell the truth, Gui Rosey doesn’t interest him much. He is far more interested in Desnos and Éluard, and yet he always ends up coming back to Rosey’s poems and looking at his photo, a studio portrait, in which he has the air of a solitary, wretched soul, with his large, glassy eyes and a dark tie that seems to be strangling him.

  He must have committed suicide, thinks B. He knew he was never going to get a visa for the States or Mexico, so he decided to end his days there and then. B imagines or tries to imagine a town on the Mediterranean coast of France. He still hasn’t been to Europe. He has been all over Latin America, or almost, but he still hasn’t set foot in Europe. So his image of a Mediterranean town is derived from his image of Acapulco. Heat, a small, cheap hotel, beaches of golden sand and beaches of white sand. And the distant sound of music. B doesn’t realise that there is a crucial element missing from the soundtrack of this scene: the rigging of the small boats that throng the ports of all the towns on the Mediterranean coast, especially the smaller ones. The sound of the rigging at night, when the sea is as still as a mill pond.

  Suddenly someone comes on to the terrace. The silhouette of a woman. She sits down at the farthest table, in a corner, near two large urns. A moment later the receptionist appears, bringing her a drink. Then, instead of going back to the counter, he comes over to B, who is sitting by the edge of the pool, and asks if he and his father are having a good time. Very good, says B. Do you like Acapulco? asks the receptionist. Very much, says B. How was the San Diego? asks the receptionist. B doesn’t understand the question. The San Diego? For a moment he thinks the receptionist is referring to the hotel, but then he remembers that the hotel is called something else. Which San Diego? asks B. The receptionist smiles. The club with the hookers. Then B remembers the card the receptionist gave his father. We still haven’t been, he says. It’s a reliable place, says the receptionist. B moves his head in a way that could mean almost anything. It’s on Constituyentes, says the receptionist. There’s another club on the avenue, the Ramada, but I wouldn’t recommend it. The Ramada, says B, watching the woman’s motionless figure in the corner of the terrace and the apparently untouched glass in front of her, between the enormous urns, whose shadows stretch and taper off under the neighbouring tables. Best to steer clear of the Ramada, says the receptionist. Why? asks B, for something to say, although he has no intention of visiting either club. It’s not reliable, says the receptionist, and his bright little rabbit-like teeth shine in the semi-darkness that has suddenly submerged the terrace, as if someone at reception had switched off half the lights.

  When the receptionist goes away, B opens his book of poetry again, but the words are illegible now, so he leaves the book open on the table, shuts his eyes and, instead of the faint chimes of rigging, he hears an atmospheric sound, the sound of enormous layers of hot air descending on the hotel and the surrounding trees. He feels like getting into the pool. For a moment he thinks he might.

  Then the woman in the corner stands up and begins to walk towards the stairs that lead from the terrace to the reception area, but she stops midway, as if she felt ill, resting one hand on the edge of a raised bed in which there are no longer flowers, only weeds.

  B watches her. The woman is wearing a loose, light-coloured summer dress, cut low, leaving her shoulders bare. He expects her to start walking again, but she stands still, her hand still gripping the edge of the raised bed, looking down, so B gets up with the book in his hand and goes over to her. The first thing that surprises him is her face. She must be about sixty years old, B guesses, although from a distance, he wouldn’t have said she was more than thirty. She is North American, and when B approaches she looks up and smiles at him. Good night, she says, rather incongruously, in Spanish. Are you all right? asks B. The woman doesn’t understand and B has to ask again, in English. I’m just thinking, says the woman, smiling at him fixedly. For a few seconds B considers what she has said to him. Thinking, thinking, thinking. And suddenly it seems to him that this declaration conceals a threat. Something approaching over the sea. Something advancing in the wake of the dark clouds invisibly crossing the Bay of Acapulco. But he doesn’t move or make any attempt to break the spell that seems to be holding him captive. Then the woman looks at the book in B’s left hand and asks him what he is reading, and B says: poetry. I’m reading poems. The woman looks him in the eye, with the same smile on her face (a smile at once bright and faded, thinks B, feeling more uneasy by the moment), and says that she used to like poetry, once. Which poets? asks B, keeping absolutely still. I can’t remember them now, says the woman, and again she seems to lose herself in the contemplation of something visible only to her. B assumes she is making an effort to remember and waits in s
ilence. After a while she looks at him again and says: Longfellow. And straight away she starts reciting lines with a monotonous rhythm that sound to B like a nursery rhyme, a far cry, in any case, from the poets he is reading. Do you know Longfellow? asks the woman. B shakes his head, although in fact he has read some Longfellow. We did it at school, says the woman, with her immutable smile. And then she adds: It’s too hot, don’t you think? It is very hot, whispers B. There could be a storm coming, says the woman. There is something very definite about her tone. At this point B looks up: he can’t see a single star. But he can see lights in the hotel. And, at the window of his room, a silhouette watching them, which makes him start, as if struck by the first, sudden drops of a tropical downpour.

  For a moment he is bewildered.

  It’s his father, on the other side of the glass, wrapped in a blue dressing-gown that he must have brought with him (B hasn’t seen it before and it certainly doesn’t belong to the hotel), staring at them, although when B notices him, he steps back, recoiling as if bitten by a snake, lifts his hand in a shy wave, and disappears behind the curtains.

  The Song of Hiawatha, says the woman. B looks at her. The Song of Hiawatha, the poem by Longfellow. Ah, yes, says B.

  Then the woman says good night and makes a gradual exit: first she goes up the stairs to reception, where she spends a few moments chatting with someone B can’t see, then, in silence, she sets off across the hotel lobby, her slim figure framed by successive windows, until she turns into the corridor that leads to the inside stairs.