by Yoko Tawada
Ei translates whatever I give her instantaneously and then tells me I should publish it under my name alone which makes me even more miserable. After becoming a successful novelist she didn’t want to translate anymore and said she didn’t want her name associated with my work. She seems to look down on translation. “Why don’t you stop translating and write instead?” she says looking straight at me. “Translators don’t count as artists you know.” But I don’t want to write novels. I translate because I want to not because I don’t have the talent to be a novelist.
Which sounds very noble but with Ei always saving me these words don’t mean much. For once I’d like to translate a story by myself though I fear the point of no return where I’ll be forced into making unjust decisions as in the case of this story I’m certainly not Saint George and don’t want to be though I feel in the end I’m the one who has to slay the dragon. “It’s your own doing” someone might say and this beast is “my own doing” yet I’d also be the cause of the dragon’s murder while I myself watched pale with horror like the princess in the story. Or I could be lying on the ground with my unsightly body stretched before the hero who ran me through with his sword. The mere thought of this makes me want to flee but there’s no escape. No matter where I turned there would only be three roles to play: Saint George or the princess or the dragon. I could try to talk my way out. “I don’t want to be any of them. I’m just the translator,” I could say which might work for a bit until I was forced into another decision. Translation is a process of making choices. That’s why I didn’t want to complete this one. Nor did I want to give up in the middle so I continued to slog on as usual.
Since mulling things over wasn’t going to get me anywhere I thought a nice refreshing wash might perk me up and headed for the bathroom which wasn’t so much a room as a space surrounded by four bare stone walls with one bucket and a length of thick rope inside. When you turned on the spigot in the corner the cloudy water that had collected in the tank during the rainy season trickled out. You collected the water in the tin bucket and washed yourself. I couldn’t figure out what the rope was for. I poured the water in the bucket down my back cooling off my neck that stung from being jabbed by my own hair. Then I carefully washed my skin which the melon juice had turned red and raw. Like a sunbather my body looked the reddish-brown color of rust. My skin no longer seemed to be mine.
… product, from all, what crawls the earth, what flees, body, whatever precedent, or agreement, or classification, will not observe, body, outrageous, furthermore, division by sex, gender roles, ignores, that sort of, body, will perish, that alone, for a weapon, no wonder, people, he who is himself, wanting to get rid of, this body, in the end, forced to stop, shameless, being this body, BE QUIET!, is told, sweating, STOP IT!, stinking, STOP IT!, innocent lambs, maidens, eating, STOP IT!, not only that, disappear, is told to, concerning that, opinions, are unanimous, he, already, his own body, exploits, destroys, his rights, voluntarily, will not give up, in that case, even if force is used …
“Ridiculous! Of course it isn’t the banana grove that’s dried out the island,” the man at the fish market fumed. It was the same guy I had bought the tiger melon from. As there were no fruit stands here everyone bought their fruit at the fish market. Not that a truck the fishmonger drove around the island selling his wares whenever the fishing boat docked was a real market. “The dragon wind dries things up. In a few years, though, a bunch of engineers’ll be coming from up north to build a huge seawall.” Glowering at me he repeated, “That’s nonsense blaming the banana grove.” He made me want to complain some more about the banana grove but I bit my tongue then changed the subject to fish. Since he bought his catch from the fishing boat as soon as it docked and started on his rounds right away you’d think the fish would be very fresh but the boat traveled far into the open sea and returned with frozen salmon or halibut and sometimes even tuna already in cans.
“Fresh doesn’t always mean the best taste you know. That’s just a myth the tourists spread,” he said.
“Can’t you catch anything nearby?”
“You’ll never eat a fish from the sea around here,” he replied roaring with laughter. The darkness of his skin was different from that of the other islanders. At one time many laborers had emigrated from the Caribbean Islands and his father who was one of those laborers married a local widow and settled down here. When the man told me his parents had always wanted to get a divorce I didn’t know what to say and instead bit my tongue again to restrain myself from asking if his father had worked in the banana grove.
… regrettable, for the leviathan, that, the leviathan’s, actions, each one, unbearable to watch, absolutely, a chance, would have had, a little, kindness, if he had shown, soon, would have been made, a small protected area, according to the rules, gradually, where he can die, better yet, this, monster from, even, things to be harvested, must have been, for example, to shear, like sheep, to milk, colorful, feathers, one by one, to pluck out, a hide, to tear off, over the ears, in one piece, and then, eggs, to take, to fry, to boil, to freeze, to use, to make aphrodisiac …
Somehow I seemed to be losing speed. I was sure my pen was moving constantly and yet the amount I translated remained almost the same. Plus the more I worked the less I felt I knew what I was doing. How could this be a translation if the words didn’t link up and even I couldn’t understand what I was writing? Perhaps I should just forge ahead without rereading. Ei advised me to reread the whole manuscript several times from the reader’s point of view but I can’t put myself in another person’s place step into their proverbial shoes. Of course this didn’t mean I was locked inside myself unable to take anything in for I clearly sensed I was receiving something from the author. Nor was I not throwing back what I received either. What I was throwing and to whom was the mystery.
I kept throwing stones across the river. Though there was no water in the riverbed my feet were wet and cold. I saw a man on the opposite bank pick up the stones I had thrown and place them into a blue plastic bag. Every time my feet moved I could hear water splashing in my shoes which irritated me. I have nothing against water itself but the sound was excessively loud. I took off my shoes and shook them upside down. Dry pebbles tumbled out.
… the leviathan, only, slightly, just a little, given in, himself, under protection, of human beings, accepted, pretended to, swore his loyalty, only that, the leviathan, however, absolutely, would not do, the leviathan, stubborn, an enemy, continued to be, completely, no matter what, in principle, forever, and, in principle, forever, the leviathan, will not believe, in human beings, their words, himself, and them, will not get used to, pushes away, whatever approaches, without a syllable, but perhaps not, if there is one, only, a scream, a groan, a wail, wide enough to tear, opened, mouth, threatening, claws, and then, sometime, someone, thinks of, a pretext, just in time, when irritated, as always but, thinks of, a short procedure, to try out, thinks of an excuse, to the throat, with a spear, one thrust, to do, to the face, one hit, with a lance, even then, yet, is not enough, on top of, already, torn apart, with a sword, wildly, little by little, perishes, groans, seep out, streams of blood …
The dogs on the island were as small as cats.
“We couldn’t have dogs attacking the sheep, so the big ones and bad ones were put to sleep. And as the years went on …”
“So it must have been …”
“Natural selection!” The woman with frizzy hair stroking the ugly little dog in her lap exuded confidence. A woman with perfectly straight hair sat next to her with another little dog on her lap. They seemed to be close friends. In the evenings women like them lined chairs along the road to sit and talk while each held a little dog with its own kind of ugliness: bulging eyes or one ear that stuck straight up or enormous protruding testicles. During their puppyhood these dogs were free to roam the woods and often returned covered with burrs. A closer examination revealed that their back legs were firmly clamped between the women’s thighs. Th
e dogs wagged their tails but yelped occasionally perhaps in pain.
“Mine had a litter of brown puppies last week. Would you like one?” the woman with the frizzy hair asked me.
“No thanks. I only came here to translate.”
“We have white ones too. And spotted ones.”
“Any black ones?”
“No black ones.”
There apparently wasn’t a single black dog on the island. Because of the superstition that black dogs were the devil’s messengers whenever a black puppy was born it was killed immediately.
“We get rid of those right away,” the women said cheerfully.
… because, aggressors, Saint Michael, Saint George, for their occupation, angels, saints, they are, so, in other words, the Archangel, the Soldier of God, therefore, in attacking, they, perfect, backing, blessings, receive, succeed, always, new, order, create, this, disorderly, antisocial, inhuman, monster, this product, of godlessness, of chaos, that, far off, where it belongs, cast off, can never return, away, to hell, everlasting sin, to death, to the devil …
Of all the places I’d been on the island I liked the post office best. I did my relaxing there with the mail and not on the beach.
“Translation must be hard work,” the postman said and I unintentionally ended up saying more than I wanted to.
“Yes it is. Because my skin’s so tender. I have allergies.”
“There’s nothing unusual about that.”
“That’s what I always say.”
“Are there any books that are never translated into another language?”
“Certainly. In fact most of the books in the world aren’t.”
“And are there some for which only the translations are left? Old books I mean.”
“Sure. Sometimes the original disappears and only the translation is left.”
“If there’s only the translation then how can you tell it isn’t the original?”
“Oh, you can tell right away. Because translation itself is something like a separate language. If the writing feels like pebbles falling down then you know it’s a translation.”
“You’d better not go down to the sea.”
But the morning of the day he advised me not to go I had already gone. I sat on the sand between the seawall and the tourist hotels thinking about George. I don’t know what started my ruminations which began before I realized it like a princess held captive on a deserted island waiting for a knight in shining armor to come to the rescue I reflected with a wry smile. One reason I wasn’t the least bit like the princess in the story though was that I despised George so much I couldn’t express it in words. Once I started to think about him an endless stream of thoughts would flow through my mind such as how great it would be if he didn’t appear though there was nothing I could do to stop him now and if he did end up visiting how would I handle him when he got here?
Beyond the seawall was the port and from time to time a patch of industrial oil would float by shining on the water’s surface like a rainbow. At nine o’clock a line of tourists trouped down to the beach. They all opened their bottles of suntan lotion at the same time and the whole place suddenly smelled like cologne. The odor reminded me of insecticide and made it hard to breathe so without thinking I stood up and ran toward the ocean. I splashed straight in with my clothes on. A piece of tissue floated in the water among clumps of reddish-brown seaweed. The seaweed wrapped itself around my legs. The moment I squatted down to pull the seaweed off I was caught by the force of the tide drawing back into the sea and fell over. The water I swallowed while I was lying there on my back wasn’t salty but tasted like banana juice.
“Would you like one?”
The popsicle that the young ice cream vendor stuck under my nose was yellow and shaped like a banana.
“Is it organic?” I asked sharply. Whenever someone tries to sell me something I automatically turn nasty—a sort of self-preservation instinct.
“Naturally,” he answered already giving up standing forlornly in front of me. Two long slender deeply tanned legs poked out of his shorts. On his feet were women’s beach sandals with colorful rubber poppies on them.
“Those are pretty sandals you’ve got on,” I said without thinking. The ice cream vendor assumed an even gloomier look than when he’d heard the word “organic” but it was too late to take back my words. I felt awkward not being able to tell a pretty young man he looked pretty but I wasn’t here to say touristy things and besides if I were selling ice cream and a tourist made that kind of remark to me I knew I’d be angry too.
By the time I said, “I’m sorry,” he was walking away. It was a mistake to have come here in the first place. Sitting on a beach can make anyone look like a tourist sooner or later.
… again and again, countless, examples, can be given, for a cheap sideshow, a chance, as, are captured, are put on display, without shrinking in fear, without trying to hide, without being boiled in oil, without being killed, without being purified, bodies, are utterly useless, as a warning, in this place, the eternal, loser, unacceptable, bodies, ready-made, overcoats, cannot wear, bodies, every time, from the form, deviate, and, time and again, try twisting, try turning over, even then, unexpected, unnoticed, the compound eye, the facet of a gem, appears, sparkles, in any picture, captured, cannot be …
The slanting rays of the sun on the sand-colored slope transformed the cacti into guardsmen.
“Please don’t let anyone in this house,” I whispered to the cacti whom I trusted and respected more than people. Without any leaves to rustle no matter how hard the wind blew the cacti didn’t make a sound. However a crowd seemed to have crept up behind them which could only be the banana trees jostling against one another. Assuming they were allowed out at night and had emerged from behind the fence they must be climbing the slope to see the sex show at the bar behind the planetarium. I had heard about the show from the doctor who said the audience would watch married couples indulge in long drawn-out sex on a tiny stage. Apparently there was nothing remarkable—no flashy displays of kinky technique. Of course the doctor hadn’t visited himself though he seemed to enjoy recounting what his friend had witnessed.
I wondered if I should turn the light on. The thought of sitting at the desk translating while being a single bright spot on this dark island slope made me uneasy. Rather than being in the spotlight like a solo performer I preferred to hide behind the author where no one could see me and finish translating before anyone noticed.
“Seems someone’s staying in that house.”
“Seems she has allergies.”
“Seems she’s translating something.”
“Seems she’s cocky enough to eat tiger melons.”
… all, is lost, but, powerful, shining iridescent, savagely, or, softly, with spines, with fangs, at the same time, light as a feather, blown away, in a tangle, interwoven, or, like a shadow, dark, bending down, or, with chest thrown out, it, is coming, before your eyes, into your heart, is coming, compared to it, heroically, with straightened back, is coming, the attacker, eternally, will live, the attacker, how, commonplace, flavorless, is, only, he himself, still, does not know, that, merely a plume, metallic, only the outer covering, under that armor, just like type cases, drawers, many, are hidden, perhaps, and, the helmet, the cheek guard, behind, probably, a pale weak face, is …
My fountain pen lightly touched the words of the original text and smudged them with ink blots before wandering through the air and landing on my manuscript to set down in serpentine letters the words of my translation. My mind was a blank so I simply let my hand move on its own. The darkness obscured the letters forcing me to lean in closely. Even with the window shut the rustling outside was incredibly loud. Not wanting to turn on the light or speak and no longer sure of what I was doing I continued to work. The words transformed into holes. Not to say I was completely numb or that I lost my will. I actually felt so full of curiosity that whenever I found a hole I stuck my hand straight into it. I was walking
with the author along the edge of a volcanic crater after an eruption. The crater was a huge bowl shaped like the traps antlions dig and was covered with coarse black sand. The path we were walking on was rimmed on both sides with boulders that looked like boiling sewage. Holes in the boulders were the size of pineapples and my hand burned with pain each time I reached into a hole causing me to scream. The author didn’t seem to hear me for she walked on without even bothering to turn around. I deliberately slowed down to see if she would stop. Instead she walked even faster leaving me farther and farther behind.
