Facing the Bridge

by Yoko Tawada

  “It’s no use hurrying, because I can catch up with you whenever I want to. I may be a lousy swimmer, but running’s my specialty,” I said peevishly and watched the author climb into the crater. I saw her being drawn toward the center as her feet slipped deeper into the black sand. Letting the sand pull her down she talked to herself as she descended.

  “The insurance salesman tells me it’s time to give up and settle down. The eye doctor said the same thing when I asked him about bifocals. So did my old teacher when I happened to run into him at a funeral. I don’t need advice like that. Yet my own mother gives it to me. While I took care of her when she said she was sick. With that smug director it was the same story. I don’t need this shit. I really don’t. I’m getting old, so everybody wants me to quit being a woman. Meaning to give up writing.”

  I considered following her into the crater but I was so scared of my feet sinking into the black sand that I couldn’t move. Once I’m frightened of something my legs stiffen and I freeze. I have a cowardly streak and I fear both water and sand. I’m afraid of George and I’m afraid of work.

  “Oh, I hate it, hate it, hate it,” the author said as she sank. She definitely wasn’t talking to me. She had forgotten I was there and was saying things I couldn’t understand while she descended. The author obviously didn’t need me. Whether the translator existed or not made no difference to her.

  “Experience isn’t something you build up—it’s something you tear down.”

  “Please wait for me!”

  “Don’t give me that crap about my literary style. I write each page in a style I use only once so there’s no such thing as ‘my literary style.’ I hate repetition. And I hate accumulation too.” The author finally turned around and stared at me as though I were some passerby she’d never seen before and then without a sign of recognition she turned her back on me again. Being careful not to fall I scooped up a handful of gravel which I threw at her with all my might.

  … and, the Princess, somewhere, safe, at a distance, the Soldier of God, in hack of, the battle, shyly, with admiration, is watching, not qualified to speak, politely, with downcast eyes, only, can wait, and, to everything, devoutly, hoping, for her, the armor-clad man, on him, in attendance, for her, the savior, to her protector, to the master of her sex, does not forget her gratitude, so that, the monster, will go to hell, can only hope, that…

  On several occasions I’ve wanted to say that I didn’t find young women very pretty but as it always seemed I’d be misunderstood I held back. The author would probably suspect me of trying to make her feel better while really feeling superior about my younger age and my editor would definitely take it as sour grapes because I myself am getting older now and young women would think I was being rude. But I really do feel this way. Young women rarely look lively and most seem so stressed out you’d think they were “sacrifices.” To compensate for their pale washed-out faces they hang slightly oversized ornaments on various parts of their bodies or suddenly appear one day wearing a little too much lipstick drawing malicious leers from others. Their skin looks cold and a hint of dark circles under their eyes suggests they’ve been crying through the night though you can see when they’re making a ploy for sympathy by claiming to be utterly useless or trying to protect themselves by pretending to be terribly innocent. Far from evoking beauty these unconscious gestures are a malevolent social convention and whenever I see a woman in her prime I look forward to becoming like her as soon as possible.

  … lipwork, the woman, is praying, is she not, not praying from the heart, because, the heart, the organ “heart,” has gone somewhere, perhaps, has sunk, slipped down, to the bottom, beyond the hem of her slip, farther down than that, perhaps, tied up, and, like a sneak thief, is shivering, is quaking, the organ “heart,” into the darkness, of the river of blood, is washed away, whirling round, of the deep green of fir trees, of purple, ankle-length, beautiful gown, below, and, furthermore, the organ “heart,” of every, wrinkle, decoration, of seam, in back, over there also, if might be, of the dragon, of the apparition, of the monster, on the tongue, or, of the throat, back, the murderer hero, time and again, time and again, takes aim, must pierce, of the throat, inside …

  I cut through the fig grove to the street behind the house. This was a few days ago when I still didn’t know where I could buy bread. For no particular reason I was convinced the shops were on higher ground so I trudged up the hill to look. The street if you could call it that wasn’t paved but was flanked on both sides with stones and wide enough for vehicles to pass by though no matter how far I walked I saw neither cars nor people. Out of breath I stopped while a canary flew by and perched on a nearby shrub. The canary chattered away at a speed I couldn’t hope to imitate. This was the first time I had seen a wild canary. I know almost nothing about birds and usually have no interest in them either. For some reason though I couldn’t stop staring at this canary.

  After a while I heard the sound of a car engine slowly drawing near. Without looking back I moved over to the left and kept walking leaving plenty of room for a car to pass. Perhaps the driver thought it was unnatural that I didn’t turn around and react in some way because the hum of the engine grew louder and louder but the car itself didn’t appear. I had heard that elderly people on the island thought it was rude to drive past a pedestrian. Most people didn’t drive so fast anyway. Occasionally a young guy would rev up his motorcycle and end up plunging into the sea but besides this accidents were rare.

  I felt weird looking back after so much time had passed so I continued to face forward. I could hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel and knew the car must be practically on top of me. Then I realized the road abruptly ended. Any direction that might have been called “forward” had completely disappeared into a steep slope above and below. The vehicle jerked to a halt. When I finally mustered the courage to turn around an angry-looking man with a towel wrapped around his head and something shiny in his hand stepped out. He was terribly tall and thin. He walked toward me without cracking a smile.

  I almost screamed. Instead of attacking me he simply squatted at my feet. Keeping his eyes to the ground he took a broad plantain leaf in his hand and began cutting the leaf with his knife.

  Relieved at first then feeling I had done something wrong I wanted to get out of his way and walk back but his truck blocked the path.

  “I’ll give you a ride when I’m done,” the man said looking up. Sweat already dripped from his forehead. When he dropped the leaves one by one into a huge canvas bag the leaves seemed to disappear completely. He told me the leaves would be dried and fed to goats during the winter. The thought of standing there until the bag was full made me terribly anxious so I said, “I’m sorry but I can’t wait that long.”

  In lieu of an answer he began telling me other things. He was studying physics at a university on the mainland and had returned to the island during break to help his parents. The fact that he was cutting plantain leaves certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t be a university student majoring in physics I told myself as I leaned against the truck watching him work. I didn’t want to help him as I don’t like touching plants with my bare hands nor did I want to squat next to him.

  “Here for travel? Or whoring?” I couldn’t believe my ears but that was definitely what he said.

  “Neither.”

  “Oh? But you sure look like her,” the man said looking straight at me. I didn’t want to ask him who and then have to talk about her.

  “I’ve come to translate,” I said trying to steer the conversation away from troublesome topics.

  The man looked bored as he turned away and said, “You have an easy life.” Mere coincidence no doubt but George always said this to me too. And whenever he did it robbed me of my courage and sapped my strength leaving me upset but too weak-kneed to really get mad. Perhaps finding my long silence strange the man looked up. A glimmer of piercing curiosity crossed his face. Pretending not to notice I climbed over the dusty hood
of the truck and without saying good-bye walked back along the road.

  … the organ “heart,” no more, must not, heat, pump blood, pulsate, must not, the heart’s pain, all ceased, must be, at least, under the bridal veil, of desire, swamp, all dried up, just like George, from the start, parched, of the flesh, desire, from him, far away, has stayed, as is, in the official report, written, water, and, tears, dried …

  By the windowsill a lizard the color of rusty scissors scurried away. Outside it was pitch black so I couldn’t see cacti or palm trees or even a single banana tree. I did hear the banana leaves rub against each other now and then like people whispering which was disturbing to listen to in the dark for it seemed like I wasn’t alone in the room. When I turned on the light the hissing voices faded for a while only to gradually return. I must have been in full view from the outside.

  “I just have a little more to do so please be quiet.”

  The undertone intensified into a cacophony. I went into the kitchen and cooled my forehead with water from the sink. And as I didn’t have anything else to drink I took a little sip of the water though I knew I shouldn’t have. I became very sleepy.

  “Don’t sleep.”

  “If you do you won’t be able to tell what sort of face it is anymore.”

  “Even if you do you might make it in time.”

  Was the wind planning to blow all night? Or perhaps it wasn’t blowing at all. As I began to hear the strange voices more clearly the letters before my eyes blurred becoming less and less readable.

  … inside, shut away, Virginal, princess, of life, from one stage, another, stage to, shrinks, but, almost, hidden, and, in a trance, seemingly, at all costs, she, to something, fast, wants to hold on, seems to, and, to the dragon, namely, is holding, little by little, to its own death, advances, the dragon, groaning, stocking, or, belt, is, of that cord, one end, of the dragon, neck, is wrapped around, the other, end, is holding, she, with both hands, both hands, to the same cord, are holding on, by that cord, she, the dragon, or, the dragon, her, to the city, will take, will be taken, in the city, with one stroke, will lose its head, and, she, will be baptized …

  My face was an indistinguishable blob reflected in the glass. In the center of the blob a light flashed.

  “Please don’t look in.”

  My thirst was making me irritable. As the window rattled I heard what sounded like a crowd of people whistling.

  “If you’re the wind come back when you sound like it.”

  A burst of laughter. At me no doubt. I scratched furiously at my right elbow. The skin broke and my fingertips turned red with blood. I picked up the dirty towel that had fallen to the floor and rubbed my fingers and elbow hard as if I were grating Parmesan cheese.

  “Filthy.”

  “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Seems to be doing it on purpose.”

  Clinging to the desk I translated the final words.

  … in oil paintings, or, as statues, lifted up, the dragon, already, terribly, beaten, head, looks back, as if, still, a chance, to say, toward the murderer, a wide open mouth, a mouth filled with blood, just like a wound split open, with that mouth, will never be healed, will never be closed, that mouth, roars, that cry, and, bellowing, groaning, words of the body, words of the heart, in the painting, ancestral, made dumb.

  I ran into the kitchen and drank glass after glass of tap water. Then I laid my head on the kitchen table planning to rest for thirty seconds. On the count of thirty I would fold up the two pages put them in an envelope and write the address.

  But when I counted to thirty and stood up dawn was breaking. Shocked I returned to the desk to find the pages as I had left them. I looked out the window and saw that the banana grove had receded to the horizon. The crimson cloud floating in the eastern sky looked like a scab—a hard ripe one ready to be torn off. I quickly folded the manuscript and put it in an envelope. Then suddenly wondering why I had folded the pages into a triangle I opened the envelope again and discovered I had folded them into a square after all but the title was missing. You might say this was perfectly natural since translating the title had completely slipped my mind.

  “Will phone in the title tomorrow.” As I scrawled this in a corner with my fountain pen a troubling thought occurred to me. “You mustn’t under any circumstances use a refillable ink pen,” the editor had said over the phone. “Why not? I’ll send the manuscript airmail you know so it won’t fall in the water,” I answered. Ei later told me he thought I was being sarcastic. When he saw the manuscript he would no doubt think I used this kind of ink on purpose just to irritate him. And there was no way I could copy the whole thing over again. The man at the post office would surely be waiting for me with the window open at nine and I’d feel terrible if I let him down. He was the only person on the island I thought might understand my work and I couldn’t betray him for a little thing like the wrong kind of ink. What was wrong with fountain pens anyway? I thought ready to fight. My ink was fine. If it was going to smear let it smear. If it disappeared altogether that would be fine too. Besides I had more important things to worry about than ink. I kicked off my bedroom slippers only to find my shoes weren’t outside the door. Perhaps the neighborhood children had stolen them. I tried to recall why I had left them out there yesterday of all days but even if I remembered I knew it wouldn’t do me any good and then it came to me. I had gotten water in them. My shoes were soaking wet so I had left them outside to dry. But how had I gotten my feet wet? I didn’t have any memory of a river that wasn’t dried up. On this island I haven’t even seen a riverbed with water in it. No use thinking about that either. The water shortage was tied up with the whole issue of trade and there was nothing I could do about it. If they wanted to save water they would have to stop exporting bananas which in turn would stop foreign currency from pouring in thus bringing an end to the import trade.

  I dashed through the house opening all the cupboards. On the bottom shelf of the dish cupboard I found an iron pot big enough to boil a baby goat with a pair of red felt shoes a copy of the Legenda Aurea and the key to the cellar hidden inside. There’s no escaping the eyes of someone who knows to look in unexpected places I thought feeling pleased with myself. The red felt shoes looked familiar. I had seen shoes like that on the feet of a princess in a Paolo Uccello painting in the London National Gallery. Saint Michael also wears a pair as he stamps on a snake. In that painting by Piero della Francesca the look in Saint Michael’s eyes made me shudder. Crushing a snake … The shoes stomping the poor creature to death … I couldn’t bear to put them on. I was horrified that the cruel dissipated dissatisfied look in Saint Michael’s eyes would eclipse my gaze. Being infected with the expression on the princess’s face would be even more horrifying. Even without her corrupting influence I was sure I had once looked like her at one time or another. I probably wasn’t aware of it either. Which made it more revolting.

  I had no choice but to put on the red felt shoes. Then I picked up the envelope and was about to leave when I realized I didn’t have the house key. When the cellar key had come out of hiding the house key must have disappeared in its place. This is the way things work with natural selection and trade balance or trade selection and natural balance. They let you rejoice at having found one thing when actually they’re hiding the fact that something else has disappeared. There was no time to look for the door key. George might have been on the first trading vessel that arrived this morning. Or perhaps he would be on the first plane. Before that happened I simply had to get this translation to the post office.

  BACK IN FIVE MINUTES. I scribbled these words on a piece of paper and stuck it on the door. Telling myself that this note would let thieves know how soon they could expect me back so they wouldn’t be able steal anything I started down the slope. Then another worrying thought occurred to me. Now anyone could know I wasn’t home. People who weren’t aware of my presence before would know that I’d stepped out for a moment. Of course there was no time t
o climb back up the slope to remove the note. The man at the post office might get mad at me for not showing up and close the window. Maybe he would decide that translators couldn’t be trusted after all. I noticed a woman with frizzy hair sitting by the side of the road holding a little dog. I had spoken with her once before so I felt like I knew her.

  “Won’t you take a brown puppy off my hands?” she asked without a word of greeting.

  “I hate to ask you this but there’s a piece of paper on the door of the house by the palm tree. Would you mind getting rid of it? If it’s not taken down I’m afraid something terrible will happen. I’d do it myself except I’m in a huge rush.” I knew I was being presumptuous but there was no else to ask.

  “How nasty of you!” the woman laughed slapping her knees once with both hands. She had every right to react this way. I had only my own carelessness to blame. If a thief broke in and took the iron or the electric carving knife I would have to pay for it. The worst thing is I’d have to tell the police who I heard always spent several painstaking days investigating a case. So little happened on the island that they wanted to leave the most thorough record possible of every incident no matter how minor. And I can’t stand being interrogated about my private life. They’d probably start out by asking why I hadn’t brought my husband along and when they found out I didn’t have one they’d want to know why and what sort of relationship I had with the single doctor who owned the house. If he wasn’t my lover then why was he letting me use the house? What would I do to repay him? If I was here to translate then how much of a royalty was I receiving? If there was no royalty then how would the editor compensate me for my work? Perhaps he was my lover? Or a former lover? And if not then which flight would my real lover arrive on? And if not my lover then who exactly was this George I was expecting by boat? How many times had I slept with him? If our relationship wasn’t physical then how deep was it? And if there was no relationship then why not? What had kept us from developing one? These matters were clearly under police jurisdiction. If a man showed up to ask such questions I’d immediately know he was a cop even if he wasn’t in uniform. That’s how sensitive I’d become to the way the police worked and the kinds of questions they asked. Once they had me where they wanted me not only would I not be able to translate literature anymore I’d be sure to lose every refuge that existed in my daily life. With no time to explain everything to the woman holding the little dog and not knowing how to anyway I sprinted down the slope without saying anything.