Best European Fiction 2012 Read online

  The noises in the building were made by people who, like me, had stayed at home while others went to work. They were almost always women, who insisted on cooking when the sun was high in the sky, creating a stream of odors that reached my nostrils even when the windows were closed and kept me on tenterhooks until my master’s return. Now that I think about it, I feel nostalgic for those days. If I could relive them, I would pay attention to the sounds of life I previously ignored.

  One day, my master returned home in a pool of sadness. It’s the only time I remember him walking straight past me and shutting himself in his room. He didn’t come out for ages. This had me worried and confused, I didn’t know what to do. It was obvious something serious had happened, but I had no idea what it was. I ended up howling next to the door of his bedroom, I couldn’t bear it. He opened the door and finally acknowledged my presence, holding me close and bursting into tears.

  The days that followed were terrible. I never found out what had happened, but understood he’d broken it off with the Woman. She wouldn’t be coming around anymore, and we wouldn’t be going around to her place either. There would be no more walks along the beach or in the country. Sadness became a permanent fixture in our home, music was silenced, walks were shorter and duller. Such bitterness! He again paid attention to me, I could spend all the hours I liked at his side, but this didn’t make me feel any better, his sadness was like a cloud over our lives.

  As the weeks went by, his sadness decreased. Perhaps there’s truth in the saying “time heals all wounds.” One afternoon, the music went back on, though only sad, melancholy songs. Our walks got longer and I suspect at the time he was happy to have me around and so feel obliged to take me out every day.

  Over the following months, three women came into his life. One of them was very nice, whenever she entered the house it was as if an earthquake was making even the tiniest object vibrate. How I longed for my master to shut himself in his room with her as well! I wanted to hear that laughter again, see the same sparks of happiness in his eyes. But it never happened and none of these women lasted very long. Soon it was just the two of us again.

  After the last of these relationships, he renewed his habit of leaving town from time to time, as we had done when I was young. I enjoyed traveling in the car, though I didn’t like being confined to the back seat. It was pleasant watching the world go by, understanding how much more there was to discover. Our destination was always the house of his mother, a white-haired woman who treated me well and handed me treats. It was impossible not to love her. We would return home in the evening, happy at the good time we’d had.

  I remember the last of those days, how could I forget it? It was autumn now and the morning was magnificent. We walked beside the river and then went to his mother’s for lunch. Later, on the way back, he decided to leave the main road and take a detour in search of a place he used to visit as a child. When we got out of the car, I discovered it was an old chestnut grove. The ground was covered in dry leaves and a large number of burs. Burs I was seeing for the first time and had to be wary of, their spikes were very painful. Some of them were half open and revealed the chestnuts held inside. My master went to the car to get a plastic bag, where he placed the chestnuts he had collected. I hadn’t seen him so enthusiastic in a long time, as if this childhood activity were returning the smile he’d lost due to the absence of the Woman he continued to love. I also let myself go and didn’t stop jumping up around him, I’ve already said I was easily influenced by the happiness of others.

  Dusk was falling when we got back in the car. The sky that had been blue in the morning was now covered by thick, black clouds. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the heavens with its disturbing glare. And then came the sound of thunder, a long rumble drawing gradually closer, which made my heart sink. It started raining, more and more persistently. The windshield wipers couldn’t get all the water off the glass. The road was unmarked and it was difficult to know which way to go, my master kept complaining he couldn’t see a thing. That was when two strong lights appeared in front of us, flooding the inside of the car. I only had time to hear a terrible noise and then I fell into a darkness that swallowed up the lights, the car, the rain, and everything around me. That blackness devoured everything, including him.

  The dawn is coming. The bedroom light has just gone on. She is waking up to another day, though today is special. I wonder if she’ll remember what the date is, it’s been a year since he and I abandoned this world. Though I should say “started to abandon this world,” since there’s this delay neither of us was expecting, these 365 days of the strange life we’ve been given to bid farewell to our loved ones before we vanish.

  I watch my master standing motionless like a statue, eyes fixed on the rectangle of light. As I watch him moving his lips, I know he’s speaking his final words, possibly some of those verses he liked so much and used to recite to me:

  Thanks I would like to give

  for the days you share with me,

  for caresses and kisses.

  I see something like a tear sliding slowly down his cheek, which accentuates the expression of infinite sadness on his face.

  An older woman approaches on the pavement, accompanied by her dog, a black fox terrier. On reaching us, the animal stops and sniffs around the area where I am. I notice the confusion on his face. He’s obviously aware of my presence, but can’t see me or smell me. This is a sign that something of me, however small, is left in the world. I want to bark, reward his attention, but no sound comes out, we ghosts can’t bark. Our presence, I realize now, is a terrible punishment, reminding us of the things we’ve lost.

  The fox terrier continues on his way. The tugging on his leash gets stronger and forces him to leave. I look in the direction of my master, who has become a hazy figure, as if his body were disintegrating. I watch as he turns into filaments of strange mist that merge with the morning air. He still has time to look away from the window and glance at me for a split second, long enough for our eyes to meet for the last time.

  Then I notice he’s not the only one disappearing. Everything around me is turning into a gray, uniform mist that makes it more and more difficult to discern things. Trees, houses, lampposts, cars, clouds, everything is falling apart. Finally, reaching the end of that strange lucidity that has accompanied me for the past year, I understand what’s really happening is that my body’s beginning to fade, dissolving in a succession of threads that loosen the knots tying them together and disperse as the light of day grows stronger. I realize this year of a strange life is coming to an end for me as well, never again shall I be present in this world I loved so much. My head is being emptied of words, I can’t string together enough sentences to express how grateful I am for the days I’ve lived. The only sentences I retain are those of the poem my master liked to recite:

  Thanks for youth and senses.

  Thanks for the wind that makes us strangers to ourselves.

  Thanks for the sea, absolute and powerful.

  Thanks for silence and verses.1

  TRANSLATED FROM GALICIAN BY JONATHAN DUNNER

  desire

  [POLAND]

  JANUSZ RUDNICKI

  The Sorrows of Idiot Augustus

  My life is motionless, motionless like a glove from which a hand had been withdrawn, as Bruno Schulz put it. I am, as of recently, a teacher of Polish, though have now been given early retirement. Middle school. I live in a city of medium size, I am of medium build, I have a medium-sized pension, a medium-sized apartment, and I am middle-aged. Deeply middle-aged.

  I am, as of a long time ago, a father, and as of recently, a grandfather, although I see my grandson only rarely. My daughter emigrated, she lives in a big city and has a big belly—she’s giving birth again soon. I am, as of ten years ago, a widower. I once translated a poem for my late wife’s benefit, it w
as by some German poet, I can’t remember his name, but I remember the poem, it went something like this: Die before me, a little bit before. So you don’t have to go back home by yourself. I had to go by myself. The funeral was purely symbolic, she’d been coming back from visiting our daughter, all that was left of the plane was the black box. I look at every one that flies over me, and each greets me with a tilt of its wing flaps. I’ve looked at every single one, for ten years now.

  Today I went to the cemetery. I sat down by her, on the little bench, as usual, and as usual I read. Schulz, as usual. My Schulz. I am like his “Old-Age Pensioner,” I live because death has passed me by. I am of no consequence, so that the mere sound of the barrel organ launches me upward, and as soon as there is a wind, I am like a leaf gliding along through yellow autumnal expanses. I could become chairman of the Schulz Club, if such a thing were to be founded.

  Today I decided to leave town. For the first time, after all these years.

  What’s more, today I decided to start a diary. For the first time ever, outside of school. I decided to leave because . . . I decided to leave because . . . Hmm. I realized that it was the thirtieth anniversary of my wedding. Yes. Today. Thirtieth altogether, although in essence the twentieth. That was the first thing. I wanted to leave, to go where we’d gone back then, after our wedding. To Sicily. To Taormina. I hesitated because of my blood pressure, but I’d really already made my mind up. Because of our anniversary, but that wasn’t the only reason. Because of this couple, too, today at the cemetery, that was the other reason. At the very edge of the cemetery, they were sitting on a bench, they thought that nobody could see them, and what do you know, that nobody just happened to be me. They were sitting next to each other, unrepentantly young, kissing and touching each other, hurriedly, nervously, the serpentine movements of their limbs, as though they had more than four hands, in order to get there faster, she spread her legs, his hand slid underneath her dress like a serpent, she moaned, with his other hand he undid his fly, and now his Count of Monte Cristo, kept imprisoned till now, finally peeked out through this window onto the world, which must have made her shy, because instead of leaning over his fate pointing now at nothing, she turned away, which didn’t mean that she left him at the mercy of his fate, no, she took it, that fate, in her hand, and that was it, after a couple of vertical movements, that was it, a soundless explosion from a cannon aimed at the sky. He started to search through his pockets for something, one-handed, because she, irritated, was holding onto the other, and he took out a tissue, with which he started to wipe off his pants, while I retreated in silence, giving up my role as witness, and I went home, alone as usual.

  And as usual I sat down alone on the balcony, then in front of the TV, then again on the balcony, and as usual I called up the whorehouse, as usual only when I really have to, and the whore came over, as usual with a condom, and I came, as usual in her mouth, because it’s not like I could do it there, in the other place, that would be too intimate for me, too close, embarrassing, but here is distant, functional, you can stay a little detached. Then, as usual, I threw out the fact that had flowed out of me, into the trash, with ambivalence, and as usual I felt embarrassed by the fact that a rubber with my ejaculate in it was in the trash, so I went and took it out. As usual.

  And then, in bed, I thought again of Powązki Cemetery. Our first trip together out of our medium-sized city and into the capital. She was wearing yellow shorts, much to the outrage of the elderly ladies passing by. We sat down on a bench and kissed, there was none of what people might call heavy petting today, even in Polish, though we might have been doing it in our heads, without using our hands.

  Powązki Cemetery then and that couple at the cemetery today. And our thirtieth anniversary, which is basically our twentieth. And maybe also because I’ve never gone anywhere else, since then. Those are the reasons I decided to leave. To leave! I was so excited about my decision that I couldn’t fall asleep. I just started thinking about what to take; what’s more, I actually got up to start a little list, so as not to forget anything. I wrote: Camera, Schulz, charger, don’t forget!

  And when I’d written that, I added up at the top: Taormina, but then I crossed this out and wrote: Trip to Sicily, but then I crossed that out and wrote: I am, as of recently, a teacher of Polish, though have now been given early retirement. And that’s how this diary got started.

  I’ve arrived. I’m at the airport in Messina. I was flying with her, all the time. I was holding her hand, so much so that the armrests turned my fingers white (I won’t write about her anymore). An hour’s bus ride (To travel the clear ribbon of the highways, I sang under my breath) and there it is, Taormina, my love. Two bays, islets, beaches, and from there it’s all uphill, the little streets, the houses, the tiny houses, squares, tiny squares, churches, tiny churches, castles, tiny castles, all the way up to the amphitheater, all strung by the hand of God along the precipitous slope of Mount Tauro, all of it suspended over that slope like a tablecloth, and above that, further up, up, that smoky oil lamp of cosmic proportions, Her Highness, Mount Etna.

  I’d booked an exquisite hotel, the aristocratic Villa Ducale. Fifteen minutes to the historic town center going in one direction, and going in the other, three seconds to the sea, flinging yourself off the cliffs. I’d booked for three days, the Junior Suite, cheaper because it’s the end of September, two hundred and fifty euros a night, good-bye savings. The Suite takes your breath away, the magnificent bed in the bedroom, the entresol, and the rest of it all made me want to put on my felt slippers first thing. The view from the balcony: the sea and the bay. The view from the terrace: Taormina, and above it, Mount Etna. Breakfast is included in the price of the hotel, but I got there too late and missed it, went to the veranda, sat down, and ate my sandwiches along with the paper they were wrapped in, because it had been soaked all the way through along the way from the Medium-Sized City.

  I’m sitting at the Teatro Greco, the amphitheater. I walked down Corso Umberto, through Piazza IX Aprile, near the San Giuseppe Cathedral and a bar called Wunderbar, where there are a lot of people waiting, hoping to see some star. One of the earthly ones, not one of the ones in the sky. (I was walking with her, I’m not going to write about her anymore.)

  I’m sitting in the very back row, the stage is down below, and I’m surrounded by walls that predate Christ. I feel like I’m sitting astride the very pinnacle of history. Is there a girl on the stage? A young woman? Too far, I can’t see. She’s practicing her cartwheels, some of them successful, some of them not. The successful ones look like spinning stars.

  I’m at the hotel. I was in the shower, and now, on the balcony, I sit and wonder. Because, at the amphitheater, I went down to see her from up close. Because I was speechless when I sat down and saw her from up close. Because she looked like Salma Hayek with her legs in the air. Because she was doing a handstand, and her blouse had ridden up to her chin and revealed two peaches with these two little pinpoints. She saw me looking, she saw that I saw, she very clearly saw me looking, because she stayed like that, even though she knew that her blouse had ridden up and exposed her. On the floor, black hair all wound up, above that her face, over her mouth and neck a red shirt, above that—look higher!—above them a stomach, dark from the sun, like it’s sculpted, trembling, glistening with her sweat, and then at the very top a pair of sneakers. I leaned over so we could see each other from the same angle. She said, ciao, signore, which pained me a little, it made me feel like a senior citizen, being called signore. I said, ciao signorina, gave a little wave, and got up to leave, but then I caved in, I turned around, by then she was standing, she was on her legs again, she looked the same, only reversed.

  I’m going to bed . . .

  I got up, it’s one in the morning, I can’t sleep. Underneath my eyelids are curlicues that insist on merging into a single shape, into her shape. And surrounding her, the walls of the amphitheater, and behind
them the Ionian Sea, and Mount Etna.

  Have you lost your mind? Go to sleep! Come to your senses! Take a look at yourself and go to sleep! Sleep, sleep, sleep!

  I can’t believe this! This can’t be happening, it’s like a movie, not like life! I went down to breakfast earlier, even though I hadn’t slept enough at all, I was one of the first, so that I could fill up once and then come back before noon to eat one more time and save money on lunch that way, and maybe even dinner, so I went down, and I was eating off the buffet of Sicilian specialties, on the terrace with the panorama view, I was eating, I was drinking, drinking, eating, and at some point I saw her! She was holding a tray and refilling the seafood at the buffet, in a waitress uniform! At my hotel! It was like I had been struck by a bolt of . . . well, what, exactly? I went back up, to my room, I stood in front of the mirror and slapped myself. Then I walked around, from the balcony to the terrace, from the terrace to the balcony. I opened up Schulz, just to escape from myself. In the story “Mr. Charles,” Mr. Charles can’t even get into his own apartment’s good graces, which is why he treads so lightly in it, to not occasion any other intruder in the guise of the echo of his steps.

  Soon I went downstairs, for my second breakfast, I sat down with my back to the buffet, facing the sea, and then I caved in, and I got up and sat down again with my back to the sea, facing the buffet, and there she was! She was standing there by the buffet, again, polishing the silverware, the forks, blowing on them and wiping them down with a cloth, I observed her with a mixture of apprehension and pleasurable excitement, she looked at me, I nodded my head, I raised my hand, and with my other hand I set my glass of juice back down on the table, and she smiled and kept wiping off the forks, slowly, up and down, up and down, that scamp, that scamp! If Saint Anthony had ever been tempted like this, he wouldn’t have become a saint. Back to my room, back to the mirror, back to slapping my own face, onto the balcony, from the balcony onto the terrace, from the terrace onto the balcony and then back down, noon, breakfast over, it’s empty.