How beautiful life is! Louisa suddenly thought, as if waking from a dream.
She climbed out of the tub, tossing the scalpel across the room. Now Billie Holiday was singing, I don’t want to lose you…
Louisa wiped the condensation from the mirror with a towel, erasing her name. Then she looked at herself. She was there, unharmed. She began to laugh, as if she had escaped from some childish prank she’d been about to play on herself. She was there, and her scrubbed face shone. Her laughter was fresh. She hadn’t laughed like that since she was a little girl.
She dressed hurriedly. She turned off the record player and threw all the creams and cigarettes in the trash. She made the bed, which still smelled of Alkis.
—Alkis, darling… she whispered.
The room took on its customary appearance.
The sun shone in the sky. Its rays made the sea shimmer. A cool breeze was blowing. The heat wave had finally ended.
She went into the bedroom, quickly packed her bags, picked up her dog Lyn, and left the apartment, carefully closing the door behind her.
Louisa traveled for three days on the train, heading north. It began to get cold and to rain. After the heat wave, this sudden change of climate calmed her. She felt the skin all over her body begin to breathe again, and she often stuck her head out the window, letting the strong drops of rain hit her face. She barely smoked at all. She slept a lot, read, closed her eyes and dreamed, lulled by the rhythm of the train. For the first time in her life she was happy. She turned the pages of her book, or let it fall to her knees as she looked out at the scenery. She closed her eyes, lit a cigarette, listened to the fat raindrops hitting the window, put on a sweater, and fell asleep again with Lyn at her feet.
On the morning of the second day she awoke in a lush green landscape. She had never seen such tall trees, such thick foliage.
The train kept stopping at stations in the middle of nowhere. Even the houses were smothered in green leaves.
On the afternoon of the third day the train reached the sea.
The landscape changed. It was a sea she had never seen before. Huge waves crashed on the rocks, and green trees tumbled down the slope of the mountain, merging with the deep green of the sea.
It was cold and a fine rain was falling, coiling the landscape in mist, as if the mountain were exhaling vapor.
Louisa put on her raincoat and stepped from the train, carrying Lyn in her arms.
The hotel was high on the mountain. Far below, the big waves pounded rhythmically against the rocks. Her room had a view of the green mountain and, further down, the North Sea. A lighthouse flickered on and off in the waves.
Louisa opened the window. It had stopped raining but the sky was dark, like black ink. A storm was building. The clouds were so thick and low that Louisa tried to reach out a hand and catch them.
This green mountain reminded her of something, as did the approaching storm, the pitch-black sky.
—La Tempesta… she whispered. She remembered the painting by Giorgione at the Gallerie dell’ Accademia in Venice, she remembered Vanessa, she remembered a different life.
Now the landscape gives off a sweet sense of anticipation—perhaps of rain. It exudes a silence, a calm. Louisa feels as if she has finally reached her destination, after years of wandering and pain.
The scenery she sees from the window is shady, full of green trees.
Louisa hears the rain falling suddenly, cataclysmically. She is filled with a sweet euphoria. She closes her eyes.
At last! She is alone! She stretches out on the bed and listens to the raindrops hitting the pane. She falls asleep with Lyn in her arms.
Louisa dreams that she’s in Venice, standing before a painting at the Gallerie dell’Accademia. The painting is La Tempesta. In a landscape full of mystery, a thunderstorm is about to break. A woman, naked from the waist down and with one breast showing, is holding a baby in her arms as if about to nurse it. Opposite her, at the other edge of the painting, against a background of foliage, a man in breeches and a red waistcoat stands watching her. She s looking off, somewhere else. The man is carrying a staff. There is a sweet sense of anticipation—perhaps of approaching rain. There is a silence, a calm. The two figures have finally arrived at their destination, after ages of wandering and pain. The landscape is shady, full of green trees and white clouds with curves as round as a woman’s breasts. Water gushes from a spring.
In her dream, Louisa is in the painting. She is lying in the shade of green foliage. A spring gushes beside her. She puts her hand into the cool water.
In this absolute silence, she falls asleep.
46.
Louisa’s child lived on the estate with Aunt Louisa and Uncle Miltos.
He was now two years old. He had Alkis’s purple eyes and Louisa’s blond hair.
He was a happy baby. He played with the twenty seven dogs, and at night when the parrot yelled “Down with the General!” he would dissolve into laughter. Everyone adored him.
And he loved them all, the people, the animals, the plants, all living things.
The child, they called him Alkis.
acknowledgments
Margarita Karapanou was thrilled when, last fall, the newly formed Clockroot Books decided to publish three of her novels in English translation. Her death in December 2008 was a shock and a sorrow, but it is a comfort to know how pleased she would be that English-language readers will now be able to enjoy her work as readers in Greece have for so long.
I started translating Rien ne va plus over ten years ago, when I was still a beginning student of Greek. It was one of the first Greek novels I read. It was, indeed, one of the books that taught me Greek—and while it may not have taught me to translate, it certainly made me feel a pressing desire to try. I had no idea at the time that it would turn out to be one of the most difficult books I could have chosen. Its simple language is deceptive; Rien ne va plus is hard. It’s embarrassing and endearing, captivating and manipulative by turns. It demands things a reader may not always want to give.
So translating Karapanou’s novel has been a challenge, and I am deeply grateful for the help I have received along the way. I am most indebted to Dimitri Gondicas, my teacher, mentor, and friend, who ten years ago sat with me and painstakingly went over my text word by word. In fact, every book I’ll ever translate should be dedicated in part to Dimitri: he continually makes me feel the importance of sharing the books I love. I would also like to thank my parents, David and Helen Emmerich, and my brother, Michael Emmerich, who have offered corrections and suggestions on several versions over the years. Nicholas Salvato and Michael Sherry read and commented on the translation’s earliest incarnation, and Patricia Akhimie did the same for a more recent one. Hilary Plum, my editor at Clockroot, has been wonderfully supportive and encouraging, and I am very grateful to her and to Pam Thompson for having faith that Karapanou’s work will find the audience it deserves in English.
—Karen Emmerich
Rien Ne Va Plus Page 11
