The girls’ and boys’ apartments communicated with each other according to habit and custom, above all according to political allegiances. They also communicated due to some of the girls wanting the boys to do them the favor of deflowering them. Afterward the girls would explain it to themselves, draw conclusions, and compile lists with recommendations. One classmate—who wasn’t on the committee and who, due to Valentina never saying a word, wasn’t afraid of her, unlike the other girls who tended to fear the girls on the committee—told Valentina about her first time. She was a little older than the other girls in her year and so the whole virginity thing bothered her more, sort of like being the last one to get your period. One day she said enough was enough, that tonight was the night, that she would ask the first guy that went to the bar for a cup of coffee (and she said specifically a cup of coffee) if he would go to bed with her. And so it was. She didn’t give any other details, she only smiled. It was the first time Valentina saw a girl actually satisfied with her first time. The first time seemed so dangerous, like being carted into the operating room. That’s why Nela recommended the hygienic method. Without being aware of it, this notion fit right in with the prior generation’s way of doing things. As though bodies have to fight each other before learning to dance together.
When Valentina first met Pau she christened him Sweetskin and launched right into things; whatever would happen would happen. And he, more and more certain that he should keep cool with her, spent silent hour after silent hour in American Soda by her side, quiet while love was being born; Valentina was so quiet that Sweetskin finally took her by the hand and didn’t let her go again even after he heard her speak. Words wishing they could be something more spilled out of him and returned her voice to her. Day after day through Carrer del Carme until reaching La Rambla, then walking along all of Les Rambles; afternoon after afternoon at American Soda. Love’s reins were tangled and unwittingly made marvelous by the art of silence and by knowing that silence too is a bond, knowing this intuitively—love becoming a sea that has no explanation save for its hushed music, only music. Nothing was said about sex nor about how they spent their nights together. Nela and Isi protested and accused, like jilted lovers. What a semester. It makes me laugh. But I’m obliged to look at things this way, since I’m the storyteller of another life, another life that was also mine. We storytellers can choose what we tell only to a certain point—after all, we were given this rare gift, we had the impertinent luck to be tellers of the ineffable. To write is to transcribe, to tell is to recount, to retell. Valentina and Pau built an intimate home for themselves, a complicated home, without knowing the foundations, confiding only in silence, who made excuses for them when they entered rooms without knocking; they wove together, one into the other, whatever the image, whatever the mask, whatever the masquerade, whatever the intention, whatever tomorrow would be. Making her way through the streets with Pau, she decided to become a photographer. In bed with Pau, all she heard was music. Heaven had made for them the choice they should have made themselves, her I woke him from his oblivion, the music that they heard together, it was more than music.
TRANSLATED FROM CATALAN BY ROWAN RICARDO PHILLIPS
[SPAIN: CASTILIAN]
ENRIQUE VILA-MATAS
Far from Here
1.
It is snowing in Novonikolaevsk when Andrei Petrovich Petrescov, district attorney, starts to take his gloves off in the study of his home, while the governess in charge of his twin daughters gives him alarming reports about the girls’ behavior throughout the afternoon. We are at the end of a day that, for Andrei Petrovich Petrescov, has been one of frenetic activity in the midst of harsh weather, in the extreme and intense Siberian cold.
January 17, 1904. Record temperatures in the peaceful city of Novonikolaevsk. The prestigious district attorney, Andrei Petrovich Petrescov—who has just returned from a long session in the courtroom and a meeting of the Public Celebration Committee, over which he presides—feels remarkably tired. All the same, he listens attentively to what the governess, Maria Gergiev, is telling him. According to her, the twins, Olga and Vasha, had been playing hide and seek with their two older siblings, Dimitri and Seriozha, and had confused and upset the latter because they had hidden themselves among the spotless sheets of the bed that once was their parents’—the bed in the forbidden room. Naturally, no one would think to look for them there. Unable to find the girls, poor Dimitri and Seriozha—two and three years older than the twins, respectively—had been humiliated by their little sisters, and still didn’t seem to have gotten over the offence.
“Well, that will do them good. They’re no angels themselves,” says Andrei Petrovich Petrescov.
“And the twins, how old are they? I’m aware that this is a strange question, but I always get mixed up about the date. Every day I’m more and more overwhelmed by work. I’d like to spend more time with them, but I always get stuck in my usual routine and have to be satisfied with just reading them a story before they go to sleep.”
“The girls are seven years old, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Seven. They’re still quite young, aren’t they. I don’t see the problem. I’m not one for punishments or lectures. From now on, of course, we’ll lock the door to their deceased mother’s room. Poor girls. They don’t mean any harm.”
“They may only be seven, sir, but I feel obligated to let you know that recently the girls have been restless, behaving oddly—they’re becoming very strange. More and more often they have this identical, faraway look on their faces. They’re only seven, but that’s the age when children begin to use their reason. Olga and Vasha are indeed using their reason, but in a way that profoundly upsets me. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think that—considering the unfortunate, irreparable absence of their mother—the only thing that can set things straight would be a little paternal authority. I need you to give me a hand with them, that’s the truth of the matter. Your daughters seem to live up in the stratosphere.”
The stratosphere! After such an exhausting day, this celestial word sounds eccentric and musical in the office of Andrei Petrovich Petrescov, who smiles as he looks at the governess discreetly, trying to make sure that a certain licentiousness doesn’t appear on his face. She is a woman of forty-two, a woman who has retained an undeniable, almost categorical, physical beauty. Furthermore, she is impeccably professional. An old-school governess, with respectable professional experience in Moscow and Vladivostok.
On a number of occasions—such as today—Andrei Petrovich Petrescov has even thought about asking for her hand in marriage, even though he’s never taken that step. Maria Gergiev doesn’t seem to be expecting such a proposal, and so could react negatively, rejecting everything altogether, including her job, and this possibility doesn’t sit well with Andrei Petrovich Petrescov. No, Maria is a professional, and it would be difficult to find someone of her stature willing to relocate to Novonikolaevsk.
At any rate, thinks Andrei Petrovich Petrescov, I still have plenty of time to ask her to marry me later on. That’s what he tells himself, this district attorney who feels more alone each day, more overwhelmed by his work at the courthouse and, above all else, by his hectic family life, to which must be added that he is president of the Public Celebration Committee, which is currently preparing the events that will take place in one week to commemorate Novonikolaevsk’s recently acquired status as a city—a status officially conferred by the Czar.
Andrei Petrovich Petrescov is a widower two times over. His first marriage left him with the unbearable responsibility of his two children, Anna and Mikhail, now twenty and eighteen years old, respectively: two troubled children, involved in various conspiracies, befriending dangerous subversive types who make no secret of the fact that they are enemies of the Czar. Anna and Mikhail, planning the violent overthrow of all of society’s hallowed institutions in the name of equality, of happiness for all; or, failing that, at least of identical misery for all. The worst thing ab
out it being how obvious they are about it—likely to be caught at any moment. But, then again, it’s hard to deny that there’s a certain ridiculousness to their cabal. What could be more ridiculous than planning the downfall of the Czar from a city as insignificant and provincial as Novonikolaevsk?
Andrei Petrovich Petrescov is constantly overwhelmed by the weight, the burden of two generations of children, two families in the same house. And no wife. Andrei Petrovich Petrescov looks again at Maria Gergiev and the idea of proposing to her comes back into his head. But finally his profound fear of her reaction sets back in, so he decides to busy himself with his paternal responsibilities. He calls his disobedient twins into the study.
In spite of the fact that his meetings at the courthouse, and especially his meetings with the Public Celebration Committee, have been extraordinarily exhausting, he will try to give some direction to the wild imaginations of his two little daughters, two girls who were born at the very moment their mother died—born at the very moment the stigma of having been bad luck to both his wives fell upon Andrei Petrovich Petrescov. Truth be told, this is another reason why he doesn’t dare propose to Maria Gergiev, and undoubtedly the reason why she—who gladly agreed when he asked her to move from Vladivostok to rough Novonikolaevsk—always takes great care to keep her distance from her employer, as much distance as possible, really, because she is almost certainly afraid that fate will lead his next wife to the same misfortune that befell unfortunate wives one and two.
“They just died because they died,” he’d like to tell Maria Gergiev, just like that, right now.
But he knows it’s better to say nothing. In the past he would have dared to do anything. Lately however he’s noticed that his pride in being a free spirit has diminished, along with his daring—as if his former courage and freedom had receded within him, corrosive, dead tissue beginning to consume his lethargic spirit.
When the governess leaves the study, the district attorney makes himself comfortable in the chair at his desk, closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander. Without knowing why, it takes him back to the spring day in 1898 when the commemoration of the first anniversary of his second wife’s death took place; it was something of a special day because it coincided with the celebrated opening of the Ob River Bridge in Novonikolaevsk, an event that brought prosperity to the town, since along with the bridge they’d just finished construction of the big train station (through which the Trans-Siberian Railway would pass in the near future) and its warehouses and repair shops. A lot of the construction companies left town soon after in order to build other towns that had the potential to become urban centers, but Novonikolaevsk didn’t disappear, since many people moved in from the surrounding villages thanks to the abundance of commodities that came in by the railway. And thanks to this new commerce and the creation of new businesses, the town began to transform into a small city. All that remained now was to top this all off with the grand celebrations in honor of the official arrival, one month from now, of Novonikolaevsk’s status as a city.
In his thoughts, Andrei Petrovich Petrescov sees with great clarity that Novonikolaevsk could turn very quickly into the regional center for banking. The arrival of the Siberian Bank had already been announced, and others will certainly follow it. Even though his salary as district attorney is always getting better and better, Andrei Petrovich Petrescov feels that it would be wise to step down and get into the business world now knocking at the door of his splendid new city. After having been district attorney for so many years in Vladivostok, he doesn’t want the same thing to happen here as happened there when the booming banks came into that city. He’s been district attorney for too long, and his talent for finance demands a change. Furthermore, six children is a serious and worrisome responsibility, even more so when you take into account that the two eldest children have never given any sign of wanting to work, and have nothing but debts and ties to the world of conspiracy and crime.
All these thoughts are passing through Andrei Petrovich Petrescov’s mind, punctuated with the background noise of his secret ambitions, which seem to be born of fatigue. He is engrossed in all these thoughts and on the verge of collapse—which is to say sleep—when, without even knocking at the door, Olga and Vasha enter his office laughing. Laughing, but in an infinitely serious way. They laugh and laugh and seem as though they have no intention of letting up. There’s something undeniably off about their expressions. They’re a little scary.
“Tekelili-lili-lo!” they repeat a number of times.
Unquestionably, thinks their father, they have created their own language, even though it doesn’t seem to be very functional.
“Enough!” shouts Andrei Petrovich Petrescov finally, with an unexpected dose of paternal authority.
The girls don’t seem at all intimidated and begin to mimic him as he smokes. Once again, the district attorney can’t believe his eyes. They imitate him so perfectly that he almost thinks he can see the smoke coming out of their mouths.
“What’s all this about?” he asks them, practically terrified.
Silence. End of the infinitely serious laughter. A powerful weariness has overtaken the district attorney. There’s no fighting it off. Well, it’s been a rough day. He takes off his glasses.
“Tekelili-lili-lo!”
“What’s all this about? Let’s see…Vasha? Answer me,” Andrei Petrovich Petrescov declares. “Why were you laughing? Why are you being so disobedient? Do you know what disobedient means? Don’t you know the story of the disobedient frog?”
“Will you tell it to us tonight?” asks Vasha.
“Daddy is a story,” says Olga.
“Tekeló-lo-lo!” shouts Vasha.
“I want to ask you something,” says Olga, in a faint filament of a voice.
“So ask, my daughter.”
Coup de théâtre. The girls suddenly disappear, as if by magic, and while Andrei Petrovich is asking himself what the hell just happened, they reappear—laughing, again in that infinitely serious way.
Eternal return, thinks Andrei Petrovich Petrescov resignedly.
The girls again begin to imitate him smoking. “What’s going on here,” Andrei Petrovich Petrescov repeats to himself, disturbed. Silence. End of the infinitely serious laughter.
The aesthetic of twins, thinks Andrei Petrovich, now almost nodding off. And that’s all that occurs to him.
“I want to ask you something,” insists Vasha, her voice booming in her father’s ears.
“What’s with your voice?” he asks, finding everything increasingly strange, especially the fact that their scene keeps repeating. I must be really tired, he thinks. He wipes the sweat from his brow. Yes, without a doubt, a rough day. The Public Celebration Committee especially was what wore him out. He hardly has enough energy to eat, though that’s what he needs most, and, moreover, it’s what he most wants to do, urgently, at this very moment.
“It’s a question about the universe,” says Olga.
“Yeah, about the firmament,” says Vasha.
“Why is there something?” asks Olga.
“What?” asks their father.
“Why is there something instead of nothing,” explains Olga.
Andrei Petrovich Petrescov has turned pale, rigid, petrified. Disbelieving.
“Yeah. Tell us. Why is there something instead of nothing?” Vasha repeats.
Silence.
He wants to respond, “Because God made the world in seven days,” but he says nothing, because he knows he’s already explained this to the twins many times. In any case, if his children are talking about “something instead of nothing,” then they must have started to think about those distant times in which, if truth be told, there was nothing; that is to say, in those remote times when there was only God. But if God was there, then there was something, there was always something, unless God himself wasn’t there when there was nothing.
Andrei Petrovich Petrescov puts his glasses back on, a victim of his own perplexity an
d confusion. It’s no good for you to get yourself so exhausted, he thinks. There was his operation, six months ago, and he still doesn’t feel completely recovered. He’s risking his health with so much activity. The operation was fantastically painful, terrifying, treacherous. Yes, he has yet to completely recuperate. He still feels fragile, vulnerable. He’s sure that nothing will ever be the same in his life, and that, at any rate, he should be taking better care of his body. Lately, with so much work every day, he’s been pushing it too far.
“Instead of nothing,” they repeat under their breath.
When he realizes that he has become despondent, and that, as a father, he is probably making a terrible impression on the twins, he tries to reply, but recognizes that he is unable. His hectic day has left him beaten. He needs to eat something, urgently.
The twins look at him expectantly. And spectrally, because the light of the moon, entering through the window of the office, seems like it only cares to illuminate them.
“Yeah, tell us. Why is there something instead of nothing?”
“Are we, as a species, going to kill ourselves off?” he believes he hears Vasha say, now talking in a very soft voice.
“Is there life after death?” asks Olga.
He starts to wonder whether it might be true that his daughters are from the stratosphere—whether they are poor little motherless twins from this day and age or if they actually come from some far-off planet where science has deciphered the enigma of existence. What are they hiding? What do the two little girls know, but don’t want to tell him? But it must be his exhaustion making him think this way, Andrei Petrovich Petrescov assumes—his tiredness is disrupting his mind and making him believe that he’s been floating, for some time now, through a murky cloud, all his thoughts in a jumble. But, regardless, questions like, “Are we, as a species, going to kill ourselves off?”—if it’s true that Vasha really asked him this—seem to have been formulated in the language of the future.
Best European Fiction 2011 Page 7
