by Diego Marani
PRAISE FOR DIEGO MARANI
AND THE LAST OF THE VOSTYACHS
‘Diego Marani’s second novel to appear in English, in a dazzling translation from the Italian by Judith Landry, is a riot of comic unpredictability…The Last of the Vostyachs cleverly explores notions of freedom, possession and imprisonment—erudition keeping pace with a rollicking plot. Marani's sentences are controlled explosions of impressionism, his narrative structure a thematic echo chamber.’ Times Literary Supplement
‘So, we have: 1. An intellectual puzzle. 2. A wild man of nature adrift in a big city. 3. A policier set near the Arctic Circle. (If that alone doesn’t make you put down your copies of Fifty Shades of Whatever then I despair. It has that Killingesque atmosphere.) 4. Magic, and a sense of the immensity of the primeval universe. 5. An unmistakable dash of humour, even when your nerves are being shredded. 6. Wolves, and a Siberian tiger, let loose from a zoo. 7. A happy ending against all odds. And 8. All hanging together. When I reviewed New Finnish Grammar, I edged towards using the word “genius” to describe Marani. I’m doing so again now.’ The Guardian
‘For Italian fiction in translation, there is nobody more important being published today. This is a beautiful, intelligently funny novel.’ Italia Magazine
‘Landry is an adept translator, of the kind who likes to make it seem that the book has all along been written in English.’ The London Review of Books
‘A roller-coaster ride whisking the reader alternatively through zones of darkness, hilarity, cruelty, tenderness, the near-lubricious…There’s something for almost everyone.’ PEN
PRAISE FOR NEW FINNISH GRAMMAR
‘This is an extraordinary book, as good as Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient and with a similar mystery at its heart.’ The Spectator
‘Beautifully written and translated, and beautifully original.’ The Times
‘Who is Sampo? This identity thriller delivers plot, bodies and clues—as well as poetic musings on national and individual identity. Marani is obsessed by language and how it defines us.’ Independent
‘Marani’s miraculous novel is profound, moving, elusive and tragic.’ Irish Times
‘This is a desperately sad book. It takes its place beside Romantic stories of Kaspar Hauser and Wolf Boy of Aveyron, which have haunted the European imagination for two centuries…Judith Landry is to be congratulated on her seamless translation from the Italian.’ The New Statesman
‘We soon forget we are reading an English translation of an Italian novel. Sheer narrative vim is one reason for this…What gives New Finnish Grammar its true interest, however, is its evocation of a place and language foreign to the author yet, to all appearances, intimately familiar.’ Times Literary Supplement
‘I lost count of the number of times that I chuckled quietly or gasped involuntarily at a simple yet beautiful word play… A stunning book. I know I will be thrusting it into people’s hands for years to come.’ Blackwell’s Bookshop, Oxford
‘A thoroughly European sensibility: intellectual, melancholy, mysterious, imbued with a sense of tragedy and history.’ Independent on Sunday
DIEGO MARANI was born in Ferrara in 1959. He has worked as a translator and policy officer for the European Commission and has written several other novels, collections of essays and short stories. Marani has been awarded the Campiello Prize and the Stresa Prize for The Last of the Vostyachs, as well as winning the Bruno Cavallini Prize. New Finnish Grammar has received the Grinzane-Cavour Prize, was shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Award, and the Best Translated Book Award, and longlisted for the European Book Prize. Marani invented the mock language Europanto, in which he has written columns for European newspapers. He lives in Brussels with his wife and two children.
JUDITH LANDRY is a translator of works of fiction, art and architecture. Her translations include The House by the Medlar Tree by Giovanni Verga, The Devil in Love by Jacques Cazotte, A Bag of Marbles, by Joseph Joffo, and Smarra & Trilby by Charles Nodier. In 2012, she was awarded the Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize for Marani’s New Finnish Grammar.
TEXT PUBLISHING MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA
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L' Ultimo dei vostiachi © copyright Diego Marani 2002
English translation copyright © Judith Landry 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in Italian as L' Ultimo dei vostiachi Bompiani, 2002
First published in the UK by Dedalus, 2012
Published by arrangement with Marco Vigevani Agenzia Letteraria and Dedalus Publishers.
This edition published by The Text Publishing Company, 2013
Cover design by WH Chong
Page design by Imogen Stubbs
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Author: Marani, Diego.
Title: The Last of the Vostyachs / by Diego Marani, translated by Judith Landry.
ISBN: 9781922079688 (pbk.)
ISBN: 9781921961885 (ebook)
Other Authors/Contributors: Landry, Judith.
Dewey Number: 853.914
To Simona, Alessandro and Elisabetta
‘Jede Sprache ist ein Versuch’
(Every language is an experiment)
WILHELM VON HUMBOLDT
I
They came out silently, without exchanging a glance; unhurriedly, expecting to be shot at any moment, to crumple on the spot, on to that mud they’d traipsed over so often. But now the camp was empty. The guards had all gone off during the night. The storeroom doors lay open, the chimneys of the barracks had ceased smoking. They fanned out from along the track dug out by the great wheels of the lorries, into the still dark forest, each in their own direction, without a word, as though in all those years spent locked up in there together they had never known each other. Ivan could still hear the odd thud, the sound of a broken branch, then nothing. So then he too pushed open the doors of the hut and went outside. A sooty mist hung over the wood, clinging to everything. The black wood of the huts, beaded with drops of grimy moisture, seemed to be sweating. Ivan hesitated to approach the main gate. He had never gone beyond it. For twenty years, getting up from his bench in the morning he had climbed straight on to the lorry, which then drove downhill behind the barracks, along the side of the mountain to the mine. But he’d never gone through the gates. He’d never seen them from the outside. He paused now to stare at them, and felt afraid. With one step he plunged backwards through time. A child was coming up towards him. He had a bow slung over his shoulder and was holding three dead squirrels by the tail. ‘Another four and we’ll be able to buy ourselves a bushel of flour down in the village,’ thought Ivan as he looked at them. Then he set off down the track, slithering through mud up to his ankles. It was the end of summer, when the birds migrate, the bears go into hibernation and the first snow falls on the high meadows. But for Ivan it was a morning in spring. He spent the whole day walking, away from the mine, away from the Russians. He was still walking as a watery sun went down behind the trees. Sinking his feet into the moss, he stepped over the roots of service trees covered with pale berries, went through clouds of mosquitoes which settled on his face then dissolved in a column of ligh
t inside the dense wood. Soon the white arctic night wiped away the shadows, the sky faded to a milky blur but Ivan carried on. He didn’t stop until he saw the stumpy ridges of the Byrranga Mountains and breathed in the bitter scent of heather and sedge. He drank water from a puddle in the hollow of a rock and then at last allowed himself to stretch out exhausted on the ground, never taking his eyes off the familiar outline silhouetted in the distance. He saw the crest in the shape of a deer’s head, and the two points which looked like a hare’s ears. Hunting with his father, he had found those mysterious forms faintly disquieting. Though he could no longer see it, he could sense that the child was still there, running to and fro. Twenty years had gone by, but he had remained a child. He had waited for him.
Now Ivan could start again from that distant winter morning when the soldiers had arrived. They had urinated, laughing, on to the fire, on to the roasting meat, and Ivan had never forgotten that smell of scorched urine. They had taken all the furs: those of the otters, the beavers, even the wolverine which Ivan had found in his trap. They had pushed Ivan and his father into the lorry with their rifle butts and taken them to the mine. Loading those stones into the wheelbarrow and washing them in the cold water, turning them over with a shovel, had been hard work. By the evening, Ivan could hardly move his hands. Trying not to think of food, he would sit huddled on the plank bed next to his father, listening to him singing his sad songs until he tumbled into sleep. He would dream about the mountains, the yurt in the middle of its clearing, his favourite animals. Strangely, he could see them from above, and suddenly he would realise that he was a falcon, flying above the trees, far from the darkness down below, the soldiers’ boots, the mine. One night, without a word, his father suddenly pulled him down from the plank bed by the arm. Outside, the snow was chest-high and Ivan made his way through it with difficulty. There was no moon, no stars. The snow was dull, mud-flecked. All that could be heard in the freezing darkness was the rustling of their bodies as they sank into the snow. Someone gave a shout, nailed boots clumped down from the watchtowers, there was the sound of guns being loaded but the two shadows did not pause. Ivan’s father carried on groping his way towards the wire fencing, thrusting his feet down into the snow with all his strength, holding his son firmly by the arm as he did so. Then two shots rang out in the darkness. He could see the soldiers’ white breath in the torchlight. All around, dark shadows were looming up out of the snow, seeming to take an age to reach the runaways. Ivan felt hard hands grabbing him, hitting him on the face and in the stomach, then dragging him back into the hut. He climbed on to his plank bed and cowered there, gulping down mouthfuls of blood-streaked saliva. Shortly afterwards, several faceless men dragged his father's body into the hut by the feet. In the blue flash of their torches Ivan saw his head bouncing over the floor as though it had become detached from his body. By now it was a swollen lump of hair and mangled flesh. The soldiers were shrieking, thrusting their rifle butts at random through the ragged clothing into the bodies of the other prisoners as they lay on their plank beds. But no one moved, no one tried to fend them off. The blows sank into their shadowy forms, snapping bones, crushing flesh which seemed inert. At last the door clanged shut again, the padlocks could be heard grinding in the locks, the rasping voices of the soldiers faded into the distance, together with their heavy tread. Soon all was quiet again. Even the chinks of light between the boards faded from view. Then Ivan climbed down from his plank bed, aching all over, and felt his way towards his father on the floor. He clasped his ever colder hands, shook him, called out his name with such voice as he could muster, stroked his blood-spattered hair. Then he curled up, weeping, beside the lifeless body, sought out its mouth gently with his fingers and pressed his lips against it, hoping to replace its vanished life with his own warm breath. He spent the whole night pressed up against that cold, hard body which no longer spoke to him.
Since that day, Ivan had not uttered a word. He had carried on washing stones in the pool of icy water, had split rocks with his pick-axe, had pushed the wheelbarrow along the steep, slippery path, had gone about all his work with lowered eyes, had endured all manner of humiliation, eating without looking to see what they poured into his mess tin, getting up at dawn and going to bed at sunset without a word. The new convicts who arrived in the camp thought that Ivan was dumb. Only the ones who’d been there longer knew why he never spoke. The soldiers too – even the ones who had killed his father – had forgotten. They didn’t recognise him among the crowd of tattered death’s-heads they prodded into the lorries every day. When Ivan became a man, no one in the mine any longer had any idea who that short, sinewy local was, with his flat face and jutting Tartar cheekbones. Everyone who knew his story was long dead. The others felt alarmed by that inexplicable silence which seemed akin to madness. The cover of his file, kept in a cupboard in the barracks, bore just one word: Ivan. All it contained were a few crumpled pages concerning his arrest for poaching.
Ivan broke off a branch and swung it round his head to drive off the mosquitoes and the bad memories. Now he had other things to worry about. He had to take care of the child. First of all he had to teach him how to bend a birch branch into a bow, how to braid and stretch the fibres of the bark to make ropes, how to cut an arrow so that it would imitate the falcon’s cry. Soon he would have to get by on his own and spend the winter in the forest. He would sleep in huts covered with skins and bark. He would dig into the frozen water of the lakes for bait. A thick row of young birch trees growing by the banks of a pool caught Ivan’s eye. He walked out over the sand and caught sight of the odd fish darting through the still water. He bent one of the saplings towards him, broke off a gleaming white branch and turned it around in his hands, exclaiming aloud: ‘This will make a splendid bow.’ Then salmon rose to the surface, dozens of coot flew skywards from their hiding-places among the reeds, thousands of hamsters emerged from their burrows and dived blindly into the muddy marshes; in the distant tundra, whole droves of wild reindeer galloped off in alarm. The lake waters puckered beneath a breath of wind, which then ran like a shiver throughout the forest. The mist melted away and the sun glittered on the tree trunks. It was twenty years since Ivan had uttered a word, twenty years since the language spoken by the oldest tribe of the Proto-Uralic family, the Vostyachs – cousins of the Samoyeds, the wild bear-hunters who once lived in the Byrranga Mountains and whom scientists believed to be extinct – had been heard anywhere in Northern Siberia. Hearing those sounds, all nature quaked. Things that had not been named for years emerged sluggishly from their long sleep, realising they still existed. Each animal in turn answered Ivan’s words with its own call. They were back – the men who could talk with wolves, who knew the names of the black fish hidden in the mud of the Arctic lakes, of the fleshy mosses which, for just a few summer’s days, purpled the rocks beneath the Tajmyr Peninsula; the men who had found the way out of the dark forests into another world but never the way back.
For the first few days, Ivan wandered through the thick of the trees and over the rocks, prompted by clues from his eyes and ears. For the first time in years, his heart felt untroubled. But he missed his fellow-men. He was looking for his people, because now at last he wanted, he needed to speak. He remembered the faces around the fire, the snow-covered hunters, dressed in skins, crowding into the yurt. They would sit down around the embers, drink a bowl of curdled milk and then sink into a deep sleep. When they came down from the mountains in the spring, their gaze was as piercing as that of the animals they had hunted throughout the winter. Ivan called out names which had come back to him the moment he opened his mouth to utter them. Korak, Häinö, Taypok. No one answered, no one came forward to meet the returning convict. He followed ancient paths scoured out in the rock, sometimes he came upon the skeleton of a burned-out yurt, or strips of hardened leather hanging from some branch. But he did not meet a living soul. Only the distant wolves answered his call. The whole forest was one vast graveyard without graves. His people were
buried beneath the black earth where moss and mushrooms grew. They had dissolved into the rotting mud that lay at the bottom of the pools, into the dark flesh of the berries, into the sickly sap of the birch trees, swayed by mysterious gusts of wind.
Ivan had realised that the child who sometimes followed him, then disappeared again between the ferns, was not alive. He was a vision, a spirit without a home; a dead thing rejected by the world to come. A silent shade. Yet, in his desire to break out of his solitude, Ivan had begun to talk to him. He told him stories he did not know he knew, but which came into his head with every step he took in those familiar places. To his surprise, he also found himself singing, remembering the sound of instruments which did not seem to be part of any known memory, but which beat in his temples the moment he began to sing. One after the other, he rediscovered the hidden paths he had taken with his father, he recognised the copse of black birches where the young deer, their antlers still soft and pulpy as young bark, would go to hide. He found the waterfall in the mountain stream he’d gone to with his father to catch salmon, from which you could see the distant outline of the far-off peaks, those furthest to the north, the first to catch the snow. He came to the bare, dry upland plain, where all that grew was the odd dwarf birch tree, clinging to the rock, the odd reddish dwarf pine, laid low by frost. He followed the stony track up as far as he could and, though he could not see it, he knew that somewhere, far below him, lay the sea. With his white bow he hunted and killed animals whose flesh he had no intention of eating: what he craved was their strong, sour smell. Greedily, he breathed in the smell of lives which were being cut short in order to quicken his own, which was still in suspended animation. What most alarmed him, in the new world he was discovering, was its silence. It was too similar to that of the nights in the hut, when he’d been in the mine. So Ivan made himself a drum out of reindeer skin. He remembered his father’s skilful hands as he bound strips of leather around the carefully shaped piece of spruce. He would play it in front of the fire on moonless nights, when it was dangerous to fall asleep and you might be plummeted into the world of the dead. This was what had happened to old Kunnas one October night in his hut when he was getting ready to go out hunting. The wind had crept down quietly from the Byrranga Mountains, slipped into the forest almost at ground level, without setting the branches stirring. It had stolen into the huts, whistling among the skins, among the sheets of bark, and had frozen the blood of all the sleepers in their veins. Kunnas had been found seated on his rush mat, his bow clutched in his hand and his quiver slung over his shoulder. His eyes were open; he seemed surprised to have been taken by death so mindlessly.
