Her
name was Ada Zitrone and his Janus Maria Riesenbock. I'm sitting
in their Alfa Romeo, and we're speeding along the Autobahn from
Munich to Venice. From Munich. To Venice.
This happened to me the day before
yesterday, Ash Wednesday, the first day following the end of carnival.
It was a stroll through Munich in the hopes of seeing the remains
of a yet untidied up holiday: piles of garbage, broken bottles,
trampled tails and wings, torn painted snouts. I didn't find anything
of the like, because I started off to town after noon. The streets
and city squares had been cleaned up, surely, before dawn...
I found short-lived refuge in the
coffee house "Luitpold," which I found by a map on Briennerstrasse
(or as they say here, "shtraahzze"), 11, where I permitted myself
one after the other double Remi Martins (the first in honor of Rilke,
the second--to Stefan Georg). When I got nice and warm, I crawled
out of the coffee house and started off slowly in the direction
of Schwabing, passing by Odeonplatz and Ludwigstrasse, flooded with
the first light of dawn. The shop windows promised everything in
the world, even immortality. No one sprinkled my head with ashes.
Thousands of passers-by moved side by side with me in this playful
megalopolis. But decent people on this day have to take communion
with fish: Ash-Wednesday (as Eliot called this), Aschermittwoch,
ashes, sorrow, melancholy, and fish. This is the way the fast begins...
Now, one lyrical moment. Without having
yet reached the university and the Triumphal Gates, I sensed that
spring was beginning. This happened simultaneously: a warm wind,
a bit of snow just beginning to melt in spots, my tattered rain
coat, the dangling of my shawl, a new shirt, the scent of a new
shirt, roasted chestnuts, sharp spices, the scent of something else,
of some kind of women, men, that flowed next to me, music from behind
the corner, a tightening in my chest--I stopped for less than a
moment, and where I was, I didn't stop, I simply understood--but
what I "understood," when this is entirely not the right word, and
"sensed" is not the right word, and no one will tell me the word
I need--I heard something, some kind of great changes, at least
one, something like...
Her name was Ada, his Dr. Riesenbock,
private urology in Possenhoffen. And they're taking me to Venice
in their car. I came to my senses a bit just before the Austrian
border. It was just then that almost by touch I recognized the need
to say something into this dictaphone.
So, the day before yesterday, during
the evening of the Wednesday of the beginning of the Great Fast,
I finally stepped out into Schwabing, onto the flooded Leopoldstrasse
flooded with irritating lights. I was ready for adventures, so that
I was even jumping inside my own body. Adventure found me here:
a squat and red-lipped mulatto woman, short-legged and in a short
skirt, with wild curves, covered in bangles, in a tight, trimmed
with spangles, décolleté dress, a street-walker from
some other cheerful quarter, because Schwabing now wasn't the same
one from the times of symbolism and Kaiser Wilhelm. She stood in
the gate beneath a street lamp and looked from the crowd to be a
face indispensable to it. It, in fact, turned out this way for me,
I saw her light up, she smiled, I understood everything, it became
hellishly cold in my chest, just ten more steps were left, not even
a whole hundred marks in my wallet that I had with me, so there
was no way to guarantee our contract, five steps away from her I
heard: "hallo, kommst du mit?" two more steps I kept silent and
blurted out right at her: "ja, ich komme mit, Liebling, wieviel?,"
she didn't answer "wieviel," she whirled on her regal heels, took
me by the hand and led me to the gate. However, it was the local
one anyway, from Schwabing, she opened the gate with a key, for
the sake of special effect procured from her stunning décolleté
dress, and so we stopped in a building where she led me up the stairs,
time to time looking back and smiling with her thick lips, I also
felt how there surged and rebelled in me all the abstinence of the
last months, even years, these bangles on her were simply unbearable,
I was ready to drive into her right here on the steps, squeezing
her against the rains and tearing her purely symbolic, short-tailed
red silk skirt. However she maintained a safe distance and kept
leading me somewhere upstairs, onto some tenth or so floor, during
which the entire time she sang in some tropical language, maybe
Amharic. So finally we stopped in living quarters filled with people,
filled with smoke and incense with all kinds of equatorial aromas,
illuminated by green and red lamps, where everyone without exception
was singing...
...Oho, I didn't even notice as we
crossed the Austrian border. I had just finished reading "Kiefersfelden"
or something like that, some kind of fields of beetles. Stone walls
along both sides of the boulevard, finally mountains, we drove into
the mountains, everywhere there was a shitload of snow falling,
even Dr. Riesenbock--this is me about you, about you--had to put
on his protective glasses. He's sitting behind the wheel and doesn't
know a word of Ukrainian. His wife was another deal. She understands
everything, a Ukrainian herself by birth, she's next to him on the
front seat, as she should be, Frau Riesenbock, dressed completely
in black and dark cherry colors, but she doesn't hear me...
I apparently didn't get right away
what these were for living quarters. My chest filled up with sweet
smoke, I felt myself to be almost waxen, voices singing floated
from everywhere, from all the rooms, all these people were still
walking around today in carnival rags, it was as though they had
collected them from the garbage following yesterday, my bronze-colored
temptress dissolved among the other mulatto, Arab, Turkish, Chinese,
and other Indian women, they decorated the living quarters with
living green branches, with stripes of blazing fabric and countless
pictures, at which I was completely unable to look; moving from
room to room, I tried to keep grabbing her by the backside, why
have you brought me here, I respect the customs of all people, rites
and so forth, but you've gone too far, nocturnal bird, I would say
to her, but in every room there were sitting on rugs, benches and
right on the floor a panoply of people changing clothes, anachronistic
carnival revelers, and they all were singing, without end from the
time I wound up there, non-stop songs in broken German, something
like psalms or hymns, the grammatical clumsiness even struck my
ear, but the melody was nice enough, an insanely nice melody, artificial,
a mixture of Celtic and Coptic with additions of Brazilian, Armenian,
Hungarian and Romanian. I went bananas from that music, I tried
to howl along myself, but from time to time one of the singers glanced
at me reproachfully, and said, don't stick your nose in this, it's
not your bag, so I grew silent...
The first thing that I always do when
I stop at a place I don't know is to look for a musical instrument.
I love the piano, guitar, violoncello, accordion, the maracas, the
flute, I love countless other musical instruments. So I began to
look for them. But nowhere was there anything of the like--just
voices, female and male, children's and adults's, some kind of half-crazed
prayer to another god, something there about forests, honey, groves,
fields, orchards, mountains, meadows, grasses, gates, in the meanwhile,
with a little more intense concentration, I looked over the living
quarters, it was one of the typical rental buildings from the past
century, in Lviv there are thousands of these kind, they have already
reduced them to ruin even before the secession, in the days of stormy
eclectics in ideas, it was as if the architect had competed with
the material, contriving for himself as many as possible problems
and cramming the living quarters with all kinds of nooks, niches,
pavilions, mezzanines, and, besides the sung human rendition, there
was nothing and no one there, well, okay, several sofa beds, odds
and ends, couches, some kind of rugs--everything as though it had
just been brought, all foreign and random, and in general--bare
walls and floors; one does not live or even pray in these kind of
conditions, but here, as is evident, they both lived and prayed.
And also--these lamps, red and green, something in-between a discotheque
and a Byzantine cathedral, and also aromas, aromas everywhere--from
candles and incensors, the latter in the hands of Peruvian, Korean,
Malagasian, Moroccan, and Filipino women who danced by from time
to time; somewhere my ample-lipped ruination ambled her way among
them, but I would already not recognize her in this overgrown flower
garden; after some time it came to my mind that this wasn't just
single living quarters, but rather several former living quarters,
between which the walls were knocked down, the entire floor, the
seventh heaven of the chimerical pre-Secession building on Leopoldstrasse,
or, perhaps, on one of the side alleys--I didn't notice...
You don't say, now pay attention!
Gray sky. Bald-spotted snow. Towers. Crows above the city hall's
ridge-tile. Yellow walls. Silence, ten, no, eleven in the morning,
Friday, cold, highmountain, Highalps, what else? Heavy feather beds,
bedrooms in locks frozen overnight, coffee with milk, hot wine,
school children at recess, a distant bell, chimneys, smoke above
the chimneys, invisible wings--Whose? This is Innsbruck, my friends.
To my right in the valley. I wanted to be here for a while. Hey,
Achtung, Achtung, mein lieber, Riesenbock, bitte, auf ein Moment
stoppen!.. Ich habe manche Problemen...
Well there. I was able at least to
intimate something, at least with something. To maintain this status,
this Innsbruck. At times I feel awfully bad: how much of everything
I've let go, a hole-filled collector, how much I've lost, forgotten,
especially there, at home. There remain with me (in me?) some kind
of just dark courtyards, corridors, wet garrets, trampled dandelions,
unfilled ditches, lime-covered tree trunks... This is already here,
in other countries I began to work for everyone myself, for everyone
as what I am. I disappeared in the wild abysses of moods, I wasn't
ready for them and took such a fright that, just as at home, I'll
almost lose everything. Finally, one could live more peacefully
with this. Consider everything lost extraneous. Everything lost
(a small little thing)--is indispensable. That is, inevitable. But
I had inklings. Even earlier in Lviv, and even in Chortopil, I was
afraid that chance is used by us constantly every day. I'd want
to be able to do something against it.
So the idea of this dictaphone came
up. Always to have it with me. To speak, to be silent, to speak
again. To cram into it equally as much of everything as is crammed
in our language. It's clear that it doesn't save us. But it can
intimate, give something, without knowing it itself. O, fuck, such
wise thoughts, I hate myself! Well good.
I return to the day before yesterday's
story. While I remember it. Too bad that Ada isn't listening to
this. Because I wanted her to like me. But she packed a bag for
herself filled with Italian operas and all the way from Munich has
been sitting with her headphones on, sometimes amplifying the prima
donnas with her graty voice. O don Fatale. In Italian. She knows
Italian. She's lived in Rome and Ravenna, in Pisa and Assisi. Enough
of that.
For a good hour I had been groping
through these quarters, at every step startling all kinds of Malaysians,
Persians, Ethiopians, they continued to sing, I deciphered just
individual, mutilated phrases, something like "an wi go to di radiance
a di Joiman gate wid a young son wid a greaaat floaaating fish til
di king scatta wi grain pan blood mek di lightning strike dem an
it gi we a gyadín a di Joiman gate whe dem have bread and
beer an apple a di golden cockerel glory to di Fada so wi wooda
get loaded in di celestiality a di silva wine a wi ignarance butta
gi wi some butta an beer an di spirit a di great fish glory to di
Fada tase wi an oshun doshun boshunu mek di lightning strike dem
mek di lightning strike dem cause wi gwine inna di radiance a di
Joiman gate wid a young son wid a greaaat floaatting fish til di
king scatta wi grain pan blood mek di lightning strike dem an it
gi wi a gyadín a di Joiman gate whe dem have bread an beer
an apple a di golden cockerel glory to di Fada"--this is the way
they clacked their voices with their far from perfect High German,
these resplendent with Moors and Monks, Knights and Seminarians,
Rhinoceroses and Astrologers, Minnesingers and Nibelungen, Indonesians,
Kurds, Pakistanis (or maybe Palestinians), and Albanians too, and
Bosnians, and Khmer, among which there were, categorically, Haitians,
Tahitians, Cretans, Cypriots, Congolese, Bangladeshis, Cote-d'lvoirians,
and Burkina Fasoans, and all of them entirely not too badly bore
this most complex of melodies, uttering something like "di herbal
gaadín a di Joiman gate stan before wi and be wid wi, mek
we knife fall an fill all a wi--wid a young son a big fish, wid
di spirit af enchantment, wid di enchantment af spirit, iyan an
cannan crawl inna it aze, lick mi wounds, an fi him, fi har, an
she to, grow fi wi like temptation inna di guts ar guts inna di
temptation glory to di Fada so we gwine get loaded inna di hole
a di sun di celestiality a wi clear ignarance meat gi wi meat an
schnapps an ja-ja a greaaat fish glory to di Fada an oshun doshun
boshunu mek di lightning strike dem mek di lightning strike dem
di herbal gyadín a di Joiman gate stan before wi an be wid
wi, mek wi knife fall an fill all a wi--as a young sahn great fish,
wid di spirit af enchantment, wid di enchantment af spirit, iyan
an cannan crawl inna it aze, lick mi wounds, an fi him, fi har,
an she to, grow fi wi like temptation inna di guts ar guts inna
di temptation be glorified di new Isaac"--I would have hated myself
for the rest of my days, if I would have attempted to escape from
here, even though the sense of danger continued to grow in me, all
the moreso since no one planned even to talk or somehow to come
to an understanding with me--a guest--the men sang on, sitting about
on the floor, rugs and sofas, and clapped as well to the beat with
their palms, and the women also sang on, carrying out of the side
corridors newer and newer branches of ferns, cocoanuts, swatches
of fabric, bangles, little pictures, broken records... You're crazy,
I let them know, but without hate or scorn, for all around something
grand was really happening, a harmonious ritual of all the wronged
from the entire world, they had to invent another god for themselves,
they were battered with hunger and bombs, epidemics, AIDS, chemicals,
the most polluted wells, and the cheapest bordellos were filled
with them, they had weapons and patience tested on them, they had
their forests burned and their deserts trampled, they were driven
out from every direction from the moment they were born; how did
they answer--with jazz? with marijuana? with a hundred methods of
making love?.. I walked among the refugees, half poisoned with the
aromas, with the green and red flashes, the songs, it's easy to
poison me--for everyone that these passportless searchers of the
rich German god, the Sovereign of the German Gate, to which they
managed to force their way through at the last minute--some through
a ship's pier-glasses, some through louse-infested benches, truths
and untruths, through bribes, pay-offs, killings, pleading, begging,
through thrusting out their vaginas, rear-ends, through playing
on a leather flute, through Lviv, through Poland, through the throat,
through the lungs, through 18 borders and 30 customs checkpoints--as
emigrants, musicians, journeyman laborers, sorcerers, sex machine-guns,
victims of burnt-down houses, dissidents, bandits, rebels, garbage
men, shit carriers, sellers of roses in restaurants, card dealers,
communists, Maoists, students of law and philosophy--thus they managed,
proved able, defrauded, tore off this land for themselves, this
Germany, this good life, these sleeping bags in underground passageways,
they made these cities more colorful, this good, hard-working, self-sacrificing
Germany warmed them and fed them and gave them to drink and so forth,
but they want something else from it, they're pleading for something
else from their mutual, though invented god--they want: the forests,
the Alpine mountain tops, the castles, the museums, a visa extension,
blood, warmth, sensitivity, money, cars, maybe they want citizenship?..
I walked among them stunned, as though
I were guilty of everything, as though I were the cause of causes
of this screwed up world... I'll rest a bit.
The checking of passports at the
Brennero Pass didn't last longer than three minutes. Even my Sovok
booklet didn't arouse in the Italian guy any kind of conspicuous
emotions.
Then we madly rolled downhill--Janus
Maria gassed his "Porsche," or whatever it was he had, nearly to
200 kilometers an hour, we tore into a region where there was no
more snow, where there was green grass, this is the kind of earth:
"wo die Zitronen bluhn" (and you, Lemon, have you bloomed in this
land?--what an idiotic last name, I've fallen in love with your
very name Mrs. Riesenbock), the sun poured into our eyes, cliffs
flew on both sides of the road, but everywhere there were roadside
signs of human presence: a bridge over a stream, a chapel, cows
in the grass, a Madonna, a scarecrow in the garden, a robber's castle,
a hunter's restaurant, a car repair shop, a Madonna, a chapel, a
bee hive, a fisherman's inn, a water mill, a cemetery, a Madonna,
a girl with a basket, a robber's castle, a hotel with geraniums
(gardenias? hortensias?) in the windows, a cheese-making shop, a
smashed up Opel Kadett without any passengers, a woman in black,
a Madonna...
Riesenbock got nervous: much too often
Italian road workers, who weren't in much of a hurry, popped up
and he had to slow down to 40-50, to look for detours around them,
breaking every second. The Italians among the road laborers were
as peaceful as a door.
And Riesenbock--yes, I'm talking about
you, about you--has a nervous external appearance--he's all bony
and big, he has a beard, bald spots on his head and a little bit
of roving in his eyes. From his appearance he looks like he's in
the middle of his life's journey: wearied by life, but still ravenous
for it. I like these kind of guys.
We stopped for a few minutes between
Bressanone and Bolzano. Ada drove the car from there. Now, when
you've got to take off the headphones, I'll continue my story just
for you. It was that way from there on.
Finally everyone readily turned their
attention to me. Four girls appeared next to me--a Thai, a Samoan,
a Trinidadan, and a Lesbian--moving to the rhythm of the collective
song without interrupting their singing, they quite tenderly, but
commandingly began to take off my cape. I decided not to resist
and experience everything to the very end. Perhaps to atone for
something. Or just to know. All the moreso, the end of the action
was approaching, from behind "a di Joiman gate" sung by the kagan,
several symptoms flashed from time to time, my head was swirling
from the fragrant smoke, the song was becoming louder and higher,
the refrains more frequent--me, without my cape, I might add, without
chest armor--they led me to the largest of rooms where everyone
was crawling in turn, there were countless of them, it seemed, there
was no chance whatsoever to fit them all in, however somehow they
fit in their own costumes but not in the carnival ones. They left
the middle of the room open.
Yes, I also suspect that this is some
kind of new sect, absolutely.
Then the following occurs. Several
strange characters with buck and bull horns on their heads (I might
add that it fit them like a saddle on a cow), dancing closer to
me, they carry out to the middle of the room a small sacred felt
rug (the kind we use to wipe our feet on), and before it, together
with the final ecstasies of song "a di Joiman gate gi wi to swim
past like a greaat fish") for the sake of the common rapture they
puff out their chests: gold-plated bronze with somewhat increased
proportions (in regard to natural proportions, obviously), and I
understand that this is their deity, their idol, their divinity,
better to say some kind of pithecanthropus, or a Buddha, or a German
philosopher-materialist, he was the Guardian of the German Gate,
either Egir, Grungnir, or Fafnir, a guard of the enchanted garden...
All those present besides me solemnly
kneeled before his divine appearance. When I had the impulse to
kneel, then the girls, all four of my overseers, simply kept me
from doing it, grabbing every piece of me from every direction.
With the last rhythms of the great psalm, inasmuch as I understood,
the High Holy One or something similar appeared before our eyes--a
really robust lad of unknown race, for certain some kind of mixture
of a Papuan guy with a Laplander, with a bag on his head, with only
cut-outs for his eyes, ears and mouth. Shaking my entire body, I
finally fell face down to the deity and crawled before him along
the small rug. At this point the several-hour-long hymn finally
cooled down. But here, however, a common murmando was born,
similar to the buzzing of millions of flies. Once again, clearly,
everyone other than me was humming, because I was banned from doing
that, although I didn't have the urge to hum at all...
After Trento the doctor of urology
again took the wheel. Ada, just as earlier, dove into her Italian
operas. Rossini, Verdi, Leoncavallo, Donizetti. And also Mozart,
Mozart, Mozart, who really must have been an Italian, at least half.
German women, especially from the south, really love Italians. They
die just from the Italian names, especially the double or triple
ones. This is the way immaculate conceptions begin. This is the
way Mozart was born, the great possessor of my heart.
But I, certainly, won't last till
Venice. Too much of everything--these mountains, the green grass,
which hasn't been seen since September, these arias, this bony Janus,
who from time to time mild-naturedly curses someone in German, this
view with fallen towers, this speed, this Ada, half turned away,
here's her ear, her sweet ear, illuminated all the way through,
is filling up with the nectar of music, with the warm sperm of music,
with Italian voices, here the line of her neck passes to her shoulder,
here's her hair, it seems, colored, bright chestnut colored, and
now--her arms, her palms, two birds that lie on the front panel,
they sometimes spring up in time with the music no longer heard
by anyone in the world.
I was bullshitting you. It's better
this way: with the music heard by the whole world.
Now: attention one more time! Verses
from which I must free myself. This is improvisation. I can make
a mistake here and there. Well then. O, Italy, what reason do I
love you so? Six-foot iambic, cool! Because you blow into the butt
of the ship. Utter nonsense, and it's not six foot. Well good, further.
O, Italy, what reason do I love you so? Because you blow into the
butt of the ship. Because you are like a harbor for a ship! And
I'll always, believe me, love you: when I love, I love even when
I vomit! When I compose this song of mine, Like a nightingale happy
in the grove, Then I feel like I'm in paradise, where beautiful
sluts whisper "I love you, Stanislav!" Around me--the mountains
and the Tyrol! Her, what's not a word, is parole! I'd porol--smack
you, geeoorgeous! Your king has begun to sulk like a troll.
Why, Tyrol, are you so wondrous? Why, king, are you so lecherous?
Why these cliffs, monasteries, oak trees? I'd lick your neck with
the tip if... Pardon me, maybe I'm being too loud.
They're husband and wife. She's maybe
thirty. This isn't my business.
Well look. Our "Ferrari" runs mile
after mile, we've jumped out of Alto-Adige, not a single mountain
robber attacked us, not a single of my barons enjoyed our blood,
and the landscapes are becoming more intolerable, this is the South,
the South, the South, this is cedars and pines, and monasteries,
and the lines along the Autostrade, this is the scent of coffee
from everywhere, this is aloe, myrtle, and sweet-rush, this is a
simple enumeration which one can arrange in writing in two columns,
each one of them will mean something completely unforgettable, but
at the same time--define orientations along both sides of the road;
I'm thrilled just from the name itself, that's why I want simply
to name, simply to enumerate, this is a simple enumeration, from
which your stomach goes into a spasm, and I can't venture to violate
its wonderful internal sequence:
a flower garden
a balcony
a
church
a city
square
a fountain a
kiosk
steps
in the bushes
a lantern
a gate
a pillar a
stained-glass window
a display
window
a cornice vegetables
a sidewalk a
sidewalk
a donkey
a pigeon
Saint Thomas swallow's
nests
Saint Peter Saint
Luke
a girl in a window Saint
Francis
Saint Roch
Saint
Spirit,
I tear off everything from myself
besides my shirt, as though I'm a saint, and finally give me a swig
of alcohol, even better--two swigs, so that I won't die prematurely
from excessive heat.
And what's that ahead? Verona?!
I should somehow finish the day before
yesterday's story, shouldn't I?
Yes here it is, at the instant of
the greatest humming, I'll say it this way, the bucks mentioned
above appeared, I understood it this way, that they're priests or
of this persuasion. The main one raised his head from the rug and
began to shake upon seeing what they were carrying: it was an aquarium,
an enormous one, like a large vat, without plants, without seashells,
without little stones on the sand, just with water and with a big
living fish, a little fish, it was, perhaps, maybe even a carp or
a sheat-fish, or a bream, or a white amur, say, a pike, and
here, together with the compression of ahs of the entire crowd,
they strike this aquarium to the floor (here the director dictated
slow motion of the film), the aquarium falls for a long-long time,
but breaks up anyway, splashing out green streams in every direction
(everything dries up in me), this is awful, for the priests with
their dark tongues capture the splashes, in me it's as though something
is breaking down, I see how the fish is jumping in pain on the little
rug among the broken pieces of the aquarium, I see how the High
Priest has procured a sharpened hatchet from his belt, and I know
that what will happen next, my legs give way, I'm no longer made
of wax, I'm already cotton, I'm already not even made of cotton,
I'm made of air, the first blow with the hatchet--and the fish is
split through, but it's still shaking (I'm knocked off my feet),
a second blow--everyone shouts "a-ah!," the fish has a broken pond,
but it's still shaking (I'm no longer breathing, the air is escaping
from me as though from a punctured ball), the third blow--everyone
is screaming "u-ukh!," right at the fish's heart, it will flap a
bit more and grow silent, and I: that's its darkness bottom zero
button hook, not a goo goo.
Just today I came to my senses right
before the Austrian border. The police found--not me, but my body--overnight
from Wednesday to Thursday, it seems at about three o'clock, beneath
the Kennedy Bridge near the English Park, I lay with my head pointed
to the west, the way all decent corpses lie. They brought me back
to semi-consciousness, but I was almost unable to explain anything
to anyone. All of me hurt, I felt faint inside, I felt like vomiting,
there was a ringing in my head, but I didn't succeed in falling
asleep, someone had warned me, someone had warned me. The police
kept me to ten AM, until that miracle-working pair appeared--he
and she, Ada and Riesenbock, I didn't know or see them, but they
explained to the police that I'm the famous Pepperman, and that,
it turns out, everyone is waiting for me in Venice, everyone is
just pissing without me in that Venice, everyone simply got furious
and enraged without me, and all of Venice is chanting: "Per-fe-tsky!
Per-fe-tsky!"--they so want to touch me in that Venice; Ada and
Riesenbock shoved at them some kind of scented, rustling papers
on sky-blue and pink forms with a winged lion, entangled like Laocoon,
in serpents; they vouched for me, drove me to their place in Possenhoffen,
packed for their villa, and the doctor gave me all kinds of sleeping
pills--in connection with which I crashed on their nuptial bed the
rest of the day and another night until morning, and they, Ada and
Riesenbock, in the meantime took care of my affairs, drove to the
Italian consulate for a visa for me, picked out some new glasses
for me, bought me all kind of trifles for the road and phoned someone
deep into the night, explaining something, convincing someone of
something, all while I slept (didn't sleep) on their wide bed, scattered
all over with crumbs, red-hot with nails and shells of nuts.
I don't know what all this was about.
I had to stop in Venice--and today I'm stopping over there in some
2-3 hours, or maybe even sooner. It is difficult for me to think
up any explanations. It's easier for me simply to contemplate and
list them in a whisper: the steering wheel, the road, the grass,
my neck, shoulder, half turned around, half curved, half asleep,
half bent, half love.
Between Verona and Padua the vineyards
first appeared.
NOTE ON THE NOVEL PERVERZION
Is this the case of another death in Venice? Ukrainian poet Stanislav
Perfetsky disappeared on March 11, 1993, believed to have leapt
to his death through what turned out to be a boarded-up window at
The White Lion Hotel near the Ponte Accademia. Yet the corpus delicti
was never found in the dark waters of the Grand Canal. Was it suicide?
Was it murder for the poet's transgressions? Was it a fabricated
disappearance to deceive the poet's enemies? In his novel Perverzion,
Yuri Andrukhovych recreates the life of Perfetsky as an anti-saint's
life, culling information from various sources including Perfetsky's
own notes and audio tapes, from eyewitness interviews and testimonies,
from newspapers and other sources. He follows Perfetsky's path by
train from Lviv, Ukraine near the Polish border through the new
Eastern Europe; then from Germany to Italy through the Alps by car,
and through the waterways of Venice by gondola, accompanied for
most of the journey by the profoundest love of his life Ada Zitrone,
who over the course of the novel periodically sends encoded reports
on Perfetsky's activities to a mysterious patron.
NOTE
ON THE AUTHOR
Ukrainian writer Yuri Andrukhovych (born 1960) is the author of
4 books of poetry, a cycle of stories based on his service in the
Soviet Army, and three novels: Recreations (available in
Mark Pavlyshyn's translation through U. of Toronto Press), Moskoviada
(which I am in the process of translating under the working title
The Moscow Helliad), and Perverzion (which I have
translated and which is currently under consideration by Northwestern
University Press). Andrukhovych is also a prolific essayist and
cultural commentator and recently published a volume of essays entitled
Disorientation in Locality. This past year his translation
of Shakespeare's Hamlet appeared on the Ukrainian stage in
Kyiv. Andrukhovych's carnivalesque prose is rife with verbal play
and multi-leveled nuances. He is, by overwhelming consensus, the
finest representative of postmodernism in Ukrainian literature.
He is currently a visiting Fubright scholar at Penn State University
where he is working on a project to translate poetry of the Beats
and The New York School into Ukrainian. The excerpt presented here
is from his novel Perverzion. I've had to be inventive in
my translation of this part of the novel and have translated parts
of it into authentic Jamaican English with the help of my Jamaican
friend Michael Haughton.
NOTE ON THE TRANSLATOR
Michael M. Naydan teaches Ukrainian and Russian literature at The
Pennsylvania State University. He is the author of several book-length
translations: Selected Poetry of Lina Kostenko: Wanderings of
the Heart (Garland Publishers, 1990), Marina Tsvetaeva's After
Russia (Ardis Publishers, 1992), Pavlo Tychyna's The Complete
Early Poetry Collections of Pavlo Tychyna (Litopys Publishers,
2000), and Yuri Vynnychuk's Windows of Time Frozen and Other
Stories (Klasyka Publishers, 2000). He also co-edited and co-translated
From Three Worlds: New Writing from Ukraine (Glas and Zephyr
Press, 1996 and 1997), 100 Years of Youth: A Bilingual Anthology
of 20th Century Ukrainian Poetry (Litopys Publishers, 2000),
and Olga Sedakova's Poems and Elegies (Bucknell U. Press,
forthcoming). His articles, reviews, original poetry, and translations
have appeared in numerous periodicals including Slavic and E.
European Journal, Slavic Review, Canadian Slavonic Papers, New York
Times Book Review, Agni, Nimrod, Confrontation, Denver Quarterly,
Kenyon Review, and others.
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