The Translation of Dr Apelles

by David Treuer

  But suddenly, he sat up. Reaching the bottom shouldn’t be so hard! Canoes and nets and cargo sink all the time. Rocks, too—they have no problem sinking. Why should it be so hard for him? He stood and paced the large rock—looking left and right for stones small enough to lift. Finally he saw some on the upstream edge of the table rock. They would work.

  He pried a few of them from the riverbed and carried them to the downstream edge of the table rock. Bimaadiz then climbed into the water, grabbed a hold of one of the stones, took a deep breath, and slid the stone off the rock and hugged it to his chest. Down he went, straight to the bottom.

  It was difficult to see—the water was not clear and though the current wasn’t terribly strong down there it pressed against his eyes and face. And yet, for all that, he knew the woman in his dream had told him the truth. It was as though he had stepped into the storeroom at the trading post. There were nests of trade kettles, some tipped over, others standing upright, great necklaces of leg-hold traps of all sizes, wooden axe handles bundled together and tied, trailing algae, rotten but recognizable. He released the stone and rose to the surface. He no longer felt the cold water or the cold grip of despair. He did not remember the cuts and bruises he had suffered all the day long. All Bimaadiz felt was the warm flush of certainty—it was as though Eta was already in his arms. He quickly uncoiled the rope and grabbed one end along with another stone and returned to the bottom. He searched for a nest of kettles and released the stone after he took hold of them. He knotted the rope around the handles as his legs drifted surface-ward and then he rose, emerged, and hauled the kettles up after. They were heavy and solid, coated with rust but not pitted too much. A little scrubbing would fix them right. They alone would be enough to secure his place as the most generous suitor. Most families couldn’t afford even one, and here was a clutch of ten.

  Time after time he dove and each trip brought more treasure to the surface. Kettles, traps, raw iron, rings of axeheads, adzes and slicks. He was suddenly a rich man. But the greatest treasure was the one he found last. He saw, in the dim water, a small square chest. When he opened it he would have gasped if he could have gasped underwater. Peeking from within was the unmistakable glitter of gold. He had no pouch or bag with him and all such things that had been sunk in the wreck had long since rotted away. But with his luck came a new, quick intelligence and he thought to fill one of the small kettles with the coin. He rose to the surface for the last time, climbed out, and carefully, hand over hand, pulled the kettle up after. And there, in the warm sun, he counted it out. There were four five-dollar pieces, four smaller one-dollar coins, three smaller silver quarters, and two small silver dimes. It was more money than he had ever dreamed of. He could not count it very well, but he knew its value. He realized the heavier goods would be hard to bring to shore and he did not need them for a wedding gift now—he could save them for himself, for some later day—and so he lowered back down all the kettles, traps, and tools he had piled on the rock’s surface. After resting a bit—the sun was on its way down—he coiled the rope back around his shoulders, put the coins in the purse of his mouth, and let the current carry him clear of the rapids. The day was finished. The sun went down. But it set on a much different man than on the one upon whom it rose. Bimaadiz was now rich in coin and even richer in hope.

  9. The next day Bimaadiz went immediately to Eta’s house. She was away and that was just as well—he was there to see Aantti. Aantti was up and out already, splitting rails for the small pasture behind the cabin in which their milk cow was kept. When he saw Bimaadiz approaching he groaned. He had been dreading a visit from the boy—he couldn’t possibly accept the boy’s offer. Now, in addition to denying Bimaadiz he would lose a morning’s work in the bargain.

  Bimaadiz marched up to him.

  “I’m here to ask for Eta’s hand in marriage,” he said. His voice shook but he wore a very determined look.

  Aantti knew he had to seem fair, not for Eta or Bimaadiz’s sake but to preserve good relations with his neighbors. He stopped what he was doing and led Bimaadiz in their cabin. He poured tea for them both and began with small talk.

  “How was hunting last year? What news have you heard in the woods?”

  But Bimaadiz got right to the point. He withdrew a small cloth pouch from his bandolier bag and emptied its contents on the table between them. The gold, silver, and copper coins glowed and winked. Aantti sucked in his breath. He had not been expecting this.

  “This should be more than enough,” said Bimaadiz, “to make Eta mine. If you don’t know it already I care for her, not as a prize but as a companion and friend. I am able in the woods and she will never want for food, and neither will you. If you let me marry her you’ll be gaining a son. A humble one, to be sure, but one who will make you proud and who will keep you fat in your old age. You cannot refuse me.”

  After seeing the money—more than Aantti would see in a year, even two—he had lost whatever intentions he had had of sending Bimaadiz away.

  “I accept, and clearly, you’re not so humble after all. Someone or something must be looking after you. When you marry Eta I’ll be rich in coin and rich in life with a resourceful son like you as part of the family.”

  With that he stood and instead of offering Bimaadiz his hand, he hugged him close as though they were already father and son. Aantti knew how poor Bimaadiz’s family was, and he could not imagine where Bimaadiz had gotten hold of the money. Maybe there was more to this simple village boy than met the eye. And if Bimaadiz had stolen it, which was possible as far as Aantti was concerned, he didn’t want to know.

  “One thing, though,” said Bimaadiz. “Please do not say anything to my parents about this offering. I came by it honestly, but I want to keep it a secret.”

  Aantti agreed.

  10. Bimaadiz left victorious, certain, full of hope. Aantti wasted no time. He quickly changed clothes and walked over to Jiigibiig and Zhookaagiizhigookwe’s cabin and pulled Jiigibiig aside.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Eta cares for Bimaadiz a great deal and we all know he feels the same. Who are we to stand in the way of that? In consideration for my daughter’s feelings I have given my permission for them to marry and I don’t need or expect much from you to make it all happen. What are a few furs or traps or tools to me anyway? Let’s join our families.”

  Jiigibiig was surprised. He wasn’t prepared for this and there was little he could say. He had reservations but no place to put them.

  “I couldn’t be happier,” he said. “But I am a poor Indian and increasingly we aren’t allowed to make our own decisions. Why don’t we wait until the Agent returns at summer’s end? The Governor, the Agent, the Priest, and other Chiefs will be here then. Their blessings would go a long way in securing my family’s relations with the government, which these days is an important thing. If the Agent approves we can have the wedding then and there—with all the officials and Chiefs present to bless it.”

  Aantti could not object to this, and so they sat and smoked and talked of inconsequential things. Everything was decided.

  11. When Bimaadiz and Eta got the news, they couldn’t believe their luck. What had seemed impossible was now going to happen and in a month’s time! They left the village and headed into the woods—the only place fitting to celebrate their joy. Eta plaited grass into necklaces that she put over Bimaadiz’s head after kissing him passionately. Bimaadiz played his flute, stopping only to kiss Eta. He kissed her and played some more, trying to sweeten the song with her stolen breath. Gradually their exuberance was replaced with the tender passion that they had been practicing all year long. They took off each other’s clothes and lay down beside each other naked—smooth skin pressed together, their hands feeding like flies on the other’s flesh. Life had never felt so complete, so good. But they were so intent on the future they overlooked the pleasure they were now licensed to take.

  Dr Apel
les had worked in the archive as best he could until the bell sounded.

  Then he had put away his things. He had spoken to the reading-room librarian and then to the guard, and then he had walked down the steps and walked home through the small square where jazz was performed in the summer, along the busy avenue, past the restaurant where he usually took his evening meal after a day in the archives but did not this night, and had turned right, across the busy avenue, and down his small, quieter street. He then had said “hello” to the doorman, had used the smallest key on his keychain to retrieve his mail—only a medium-sized envelope containing a journal of some kind—and he was now in the elevator. And it has happened before exactly the same way. And all the while he thought: the translation is gone, it is as though it has never existed at all, and Campaspe has done it. Since it was an archive Friday he was not at RECAP and so he could not ask her what had happened and why. He cannot grasp either the lost thing or her motives. He pushes the number for his floor and the doors close.

  It has been a week since the translation has been missing. Campaspe had begun reading it when he was asleep, or half asleep (was it a week ago? yes), but had put it back. But then, the last weekend, late Sunday. Campaspe had left that morning—errands and housekeeping before the workweek began, so she said. There had been something rushed, nervous and tittery, about her manner. She was skittish and had almost flown out of Apelles’ apartment. He hadn’t noticed, not then. And for the rest of the day he had hummed and sighed contently through his chores. And it was only in the morning as he readied his things for RECAP that he had noticed his translation was gone. All week, the thought of its theft had weighed him down. Now it was an archive day, Friday.

  Campaspe had paid a price for her curiosity all week. She’d worked alongside Apelles—as usual they said little to each other at work—and later they’d gotten drinks at Bella’s and ridden the train and made love, and she had suffered all the while.

  Usually she felt little or no real remorse when she stole a book. After all, she lifted them from stores and libraries and there were always other copies to be had. And stores and libraries, for that matter, are not people. They don’t really possess the books, they store them. And stores and libraries don’t write them, either. Or translate them. But Apelles? He was her lover. Her friend.

  She’d only meant to give it a quick once over. To consume the words as Apelles slept in the next room. She sat at the kitchen table and read the first page. She looked up at the stove clock and then out around the living room to get her bearings. The apartment was quiet. Nothing stirred.

  After a moment she put the page down and looked through Apelles’ satchel again to make sure she had the right thing. But there was nothing else. She read the page again, more confused than at first. Her heart quickened and she rubbed her fingers together. It wasn’t what she had expected at all. Not at all. She began reading quickly, with the sickening dread that she was bound to find herself in the translation, or a version of herself.

  But then Apelles coughed from the next room.

  She stopped reading and waited, her bare toes gripped the linoleum. She turned her eyes back to the manuscript.

  Apelles coughed again. And there was something about the way he coughed, some conscious pause afterwards, that told her that he was awake, that he wasn’t sleeping at all. She put the manuscript away and made a great show of stomping into the bathroom and flushing the toilet, then stomping back into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and pouring herself a glass of juice. She didn’t want it but drank it down anyway and then padded back to bed.

  She couldn’t sleep, and tossed and turned. At one point Apelles spoke in the darkness.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “No. Go back to sleep.”

  “Stressed?”

  “No. Go back to sleep.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  But something was wrong. She could taste the acid in her mouth, was it from the juice or did it rise from the manuscript or from her hot guilt, which rose in waves? There was nothing to do, and toward morning she dozed off.

  All week the thought of the translation taunted her. She thought of it when she looked at him at work and saw it when they sat across from one another in what had become “their table” at Bella’s. She heard the words written out in Apelles’ hand every time he picked up a piece of paper or a pen or a pencil, and so the translation had inserted itself between them, it had become the medium, the unspoken medium, of their relationship.

  Finally. Early on Sunday she rose before he did and she found it, still in his satchel, and she put it in her bag and left. She told herself that she would read it that Sunday and give it back to him at work on Monday.

  She did not. She could not.

  There is, for Dr Apelles, a feeling of heaviness that hangs over everything. His feet are tired and he is burdened with heavy thoughts. It seems possible that even the elevator will not be able to lift him, but with a mighty heave, it lurches into the air. He leaves the ground but his thoughts are heavy enough to make him feel as though the machinery—the motor of the elevator—is having trouble with its work. Things had been progressing with Campaspe. She was more and more in his mind. He was more and more in hers, or so he’d thought. But this ... he feels naked and exposed, stripped of his translation. Has she read it yet? Is she rereading it? What must she think . . . ?

  Campaspe did read it that Sunday. Once. Twice. Three times. In between readings she cleaned her apartment and went for walks. But no matter what she did she would either glance at her bed and see the pages of the sheets soiled there or close her eyes and see Apelles’ pages—the sum of his mind and energies and desire. And it didn’t make sense without him. She knew it would not make sense unless she could talk to him about it.

  That next day, Monday, she packed it with her things and went to work at RECAP.

  She meant to give it to Apelles first thing and to apologize. But when she saw him—so solidly and unchangedly himself, already sorting books—she changed her mind.

  “Hello.”

  “Good day.”

  “Get everything done yesterday?”

  “What? Yes. Everything. Almost everything.”

  And she knew he knew. He was waiting for her to say something, but she could not. She watched him all day as she usually did, but this time she did not read him for pleasure—this time she read him for meaning, for the meaning of his manner. And this is a sure way to destroy a good story. And though she felt that she was destroying theirs, she could not say anything about the translation. She was too embarrassed and also too curious, still, about the actual meaning of the translation. It cast him in an entirely different light, and she needed to examine him, and the translation, in that new light.

  All week she went to work and saw him there and talked to him during the day and had drinks with him in the afternoon. Surely they talked but she can’t remember anything they said. The terrible thing about lies is that you need to remember them most clearly when you tell them, but the act of lying is part performance and part interpretation, and so much of her mind was on his reactions—the way he talked, what he said, how he responded, how he held his body, what he did with his hands—that she can’t, now, remember anything she said to him, true or not. Except that she is sure she lied poorly.

  So she reads and rereads and can’t remember any of Apelles’ words except the ones he’s written down, and each time she reads his story, his translation, she is shocked at the audacity of his version.

  Dr Apelles is in the habit of thinking that when he gets in the elevator he is as good as home. The door is locked behind him. The soft lights—the one in the kitchen, the floor lamp next to his reading chair, and, like a gracious promise of rest, the one next to his queen-sized bed that doesn’t so much beckon as whisper out in the wider apartment that
here, at last, you can lay your head—are on. He has eaten a little something and can stand at the window and look down on everything and all below him. And usually he won’t have to explain anything to anyone, and there is no one to confront or confound him and he can, for all intents and purposes, cease to exist. But now, like it or not, he continues to matter, he is still being thought of out in the world. And the real terror is that since losing his translation he has lost something of himself. Campaspe has taken it. She must be reading. On the train maybe. Or in her apartment, which he has still not seen. But it wouldn’t take her all that long to read the thing. Did she hate it? Does she think he hates her? Betrayal. That ends with a whimper, with a gasp for air. He thinks about this as the elevator ascends. And he thinks ahead to the comfort of his own space, a space he alone controls. He is so used to thinking ahead like this, his mind has flown far ahead of his body that it is a shock to be reminded at the second floor by the admonishing little ding of the elevator that he is only slightly closer; that his apartment is still some ways away. But even that, the quiet comfort of his apartment, seems like it will be no comfort at all. Campaspe would have taken the translation when she was last in his apartment. She would have worked alongside him for days (how many?) with the translation in her possession. Thinking about it as she looked at him. Thinking of her betrayal as she smiled at him. Experiencing what was his life’s work, his most private and profound enterprise, as she went about the most mundane acts: shelving her dishes, taking off her shoes, making her bed, making water. And his precious translation, what she had consumed of it anyway, banged around in her mind along with all the trivialities of life. How could this be? How could it exist along with those other things?

  But today Campaspe had resolved, finally, to give it back and make her apologies and salvage, if she could, what was left of their relationship. It had been easy, this Friday, to make that resolution, mostly because she was able to make it at RECAP, at her station, when Apelles wasn’t there.