Category Archives: fiction

Ángela Pradelli on Borges

Un puente entre Ginebra y Turdera

POR ÁNGELA PRADELLI

LA RISA. La imagen tan difundida de un Borges serio y solemne no es la que transmiten sus textos, llenos de ironía y fino humor.

LA RISA. La imagen tan difundida de un Borges serio y solemne no es la que transmiten sus textos, llenos de ironía y fino humor.

Hace algunos años encontré, en uno de los estantes altos de una biblioteca escolar de Turdera, un ejemplar de El compadrito publicado por Fabril en 1968.

No lo prestamos -me aclaró la bibliotecaria-. Ese libro no puede salir de la biblioteca –aseguró.

El compadrito reúne textos de Roberto Arlt, Ezequiel Martínez Estrada, Leopoldo Lugones, Ricardo Güiraldes, Adolfo Bioy Casares, entre otros. Tiene dibujos del artista Horacio Cardo y prólogo de Jorge Luis Borges.

La bibliotecaria abrió el libro en una de las primeras páginas y me mostró la firma autógrafa de Borges. El escritor lo había firmado una tarde de 1969, cuando vino a Turdera, invitado por un grupo de estudiantes que habían organizado un concurso de literatura para las escuelas de la zona. Por ese entonces Borges, que era director de la Biblioteca Nacional, recibió a los estudiantes que habían ido a pedirle que fuera jurado del concurso. Borges, ni bien supo que eran de Turdera, aceptó. Viajó el día de la entrega de premios, dio una charla en el club Alumni, comentó los textos premiados y hasta entregó los diplomas. Pero después del brindis, cuando lo invitaron a la mesa que habían preparado especialmente, rechazó todos los platos. “Solo me gustaría –dijo- comer un poco de pan”. Antes de irse, firmó el ejemplar de El compadrito para la biblioteca.

La firma de Borges tiene cuatro segmentos, bastante separados entre sí. En esa misma página, –tal vez para alejar futuras dudas sobre la autoría- alguien escribió con letra redonda: firma autógrafa de Jorge Luis Borges.

Se sabe que Borges pasó varios veranos en Adrogué, ciudad que limita con Turdera, y que muchas veces se hospedó en el Hotel La delicia. Hay quien pudo identificar a los personajes de alguno de sus relatos con ciertos pasajeros del hotel. Durante aquellos veranos, Borges caminaba mucho por las calles empedradas de Adrogué, algunos afirman que prefería sin embargo rumbear para Turdera porque decía que allí, zona del malevaje y tierra de orilleros, oía las mejores historias. El escritor entraba en los almacenes de ramos generales y, tratando de pasar inadvertido, se sentaba en alguna de las mesas alejada del mostrador y se quedaba escuchando los relatos que narraban los clientes.

En Ginebra, en una de las calles que bajan desde el casco de la ciudad hacia el lago, los caminantes atentos pueden observar sobre la pared de una de sus casas una placa que señala que allí vivió el escritor argentino. Una tarde vi, sentado frente a la casa, a un muchacho que leía un libro de Borges. Era ginebrino pero hablaba muy bien español. El libro se lo habían regalado sus vecinos, una pareja de argentinos exiliados. En el poema El tanto, el muchacho había marcado la siguiente estrofa: “¿Y ese Iberra fatal (de quien los santos/ se apiaden) que en un puente de la vía,/ Mató a su hermano el Ñato, que debía/ Mas muertes que él, y así igualó los tantos?”. Le conté que en Turdera cruzo a menudo ese Puente Viejo, frente al que estaba el rancho de los Iberra.

Una mañana, en la escuela de Turdera, mientras leemos La intrusa en la clase, descubro que uno de los alumnos tiene sobre su banco el ejemplar aquel firmado por Borges en 1969.

-Hoy pude sacarlo porque faltó la bibliotecaria –explicó el chico.

Pero el alumno no sigue la lectura de La intrusa como el resto de sus compañeros. Es que descubrió en el margen superior de Los Iberra, una firma, otra, pero ésta es parte de la edición. El estudiante compara las firmas.

En general, no es en estas cuestiones de identidad y autoría en lo que reparan los alumnos. Lo que les gusta sobre todo es conocer anécdotas de la vida más íntima del autor: Que a Borges los compañeros de trabajo le regalaban siempre corbatas amarillas porque ese fue el único color que siguió viendo aun en la ceguera. Que muchas veces el escritor recibía en su departamento a grupos de alumnos de escuelas primarias que lo entrevistaban. Que el Borges profesor nunca desaprobaba a un alumno y que solía decirles a los estudiantes que abandonaran a un autor cuando no les gustaba. “Si usted lee a Shakespeare y no le gusta o se aburre, déjelo, quiere decir que Shakespeare todavía no ha escrito para usted”.

En la última página de Los Iberra el alumno descubre una nota al pie que lo perturba aun más que las firmas.

En el encabezamiento de este artículo figura la firma autógrafa de su desconocido autor. Es el único dato con que hemos contado para su publicación, ya que el artículo fue entregado a Jorge Luis Borges en febrero de 1959, sin otra identificación. Contamos, para ediciones sucesivas, con la posibilidad de identificar al autor para de este modo presentar a los lectores un nombre que por ahora es solamente un signo.

Y enseguida, en nuestra conversación, nos vamos tras las dudas del estudiante: ¿Quién es más Borges de los tres?

-Éste –decide por fin el estudiante y señala la nota al pie. Después arriesga una teoría-. Porque en éste –dice- están también los otros.

La tarde que visité la tumba de Borges en Plainpalais, cuando ya me volvía, vi a un muchacho que caminaba justo hacia allí. Al principio me pareció que era el mismo chico que leía a Borges en una calle de Ginebra. Sin embargo a medida que avanzaba reconocí en él rasgos idénticos al del estudiante que aquella mañana en Turdera se preguntaba por las tensiones de la autoría. No supe de cuál de los dos se trataba porque finalmente nunca nos cruzamos. Es que siempre a cierta altura, aun en los jardines del Plainpalais, los caminos se bifurcan, irremediables.

Frist published in Clarin

Katherine Hill

KATHERINE HILL (08) has new fiction online at n+1 and AGNI.

this post from the

The Bennington Writing Seminars Of Interest

The Chopstick Murders

a short story by Sanaë Lemoine

My mother called me the other day while I was washing dishes. She asked me about the chopstick murders. There haven’t been any this month, I said, but we’ll see in December. These things come and go. She seemed rather satisfied with my answer and quickly ended the conversation. I’m late for my swimming lesson, she said.

The murders started at the end of the summer during the high season. The inn was full with guests and my husband was up at five in the morning to clean the bathrooms. The last stragglers of the night crawled to bed at that hour, and I would step over their weak limbs on my way to the kitchen. There were just three murders on the first day, the twenty-seventh of August, and then as the weeks went on, the deaths accumulated. By October we had hired a second gardener to dig graves. I established a good relationship with the town at the bottom of the mountain and the mayor helped me with small matters such as making sure the bodies were correctly incinerated. In the evening I strolled through the makeshift cemetery, dipping in and out of the small houses we had built. I counted the leftover urns, still resting unpacked in boxes.

My husband feeds the bears in the morning. We keep them in a bamboo cage by the baths. They look like big black dogs but mostly they stay quiet, drowsing in the afternoon sun.

The guests still come en masse despite the murders. They don’t seem to mind, and they ignore the few journalists that fall upon our hot springs. The curious ones prowl around the baths at sunset, but I shoo them away before dinnertime. I designed a new bathrobe for the guests this year. It has blue lotus flowers on the sleeves and reaches my ankles.

The first body I found was that of a woman. She must have been in her thirties, and there she was, unclothed, arched over a rock by the hot spring. Her feet were in the water and when I felt them they were warm. Two chopsticks jutted out of her chest and blood ran down her body drawing red lines on her white skin. From the wound I picked stray splinters. I washed her first before calling my husband.

My mother came to visit soon after and stood by the hot spring, threw open her bathrobe and yelled out: You spirits come take me away, as well! But nothing happened. I watched her rounded belly and the thinness of her thighs before she closed her bathrobe and snapped at me, So, how do we stop this? I shook my head.

There are days when I worry that my husband will be found, fallen by the baths, stripped naked and stabbed with chopsticks. Ever since the murders began we have banned chopsticks and now I only cook with forks and sharp knives. I ache for the feeling of chopsticks in my fingers. In the mornings I prepare elk stew and rice to be served with deep metal spoons.

We decided to open the inn with the hot springs after we sold our ramen restaurant. My husband wanted to leave Tokyo and I thought, why not, it would be pleasant to run an inn. There are fourteen rooms, a bar and sofas in the entrance. We built two baths with covered paths leading to the outdoor hot springs.

The murders have stopped since last month and I look out of my window through the morning mist. From here I can see the bears rattling in their cages. The knife is heavy in my hands but I continue to chop green onions. My husband goes out to feed the bears and he doesn’t return. Two hours later I pull on my rubber boots and step outside. It is cold and silent; the bathers drift in the hot springs like pale fish. I wave at them and continue down the path, calling my husband’s name. I search for the rest of the day, and by nightfall I return to the inn empty handed.

a note from Sanaë Lemoine: When I was younger, my mother and I would leave Tokyo for a few days and stay at an inn with a rotenburo (hot spring). There was one inn that kept small bears in a cage. I would pass by them every time we went to the baths, they were often sound asleep in their bamboo cages. It seemed that the little bears were once allowed to swim in the hot springs with the guests. They liked the hot water. But then a newly implemented hygiene law prevented the bears from swimming with humans. In the ryokan (Japanese inn) lunch was never served, the two important meals were breakfast and dinner. My mother says that we ate bear stew for dinner. I don’t remember the meal, but she told me it was not so good.
I wrote this story while thinking about the small bears at this Japanese inn.

Sanaë was born in France but lived in Australia for seven years. She then returned to Paris where she completed her schooling. Her mother is Japanese, and her father from Brittany, in the west of France. Sanaë graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 2011 with a BA in English and a concentration in Creative Writing. She is a student at Columbia University, in her first year of the MFA program in fiction. In addition to her love for writing, Sanaë enjoys all food-related things: preparing food, eating, reading cookbooks and contributing at www.thewalkinkitchen.com.

follow Ms. Lemoine on twitter.

Bathing, a short story by Sanaë Lemoine

Hugo’s father explains he named him after Victor Hugo. He does not think that because in French the family name is at the end, in Japanese it would read Hugo Victor. He names his son Hugo and later tells him it is not because of Les Misérables.
Ruy Blas is the masterpiece, the best play ever written! His father says. He quotes, Verre de terre amoureux d’une étoile! A worm in love with a star. He was a Shakespearean actor in his early twenties and tells his son that the Japanese acting school was not so good.
When Hugo is eleven his father moves to Osaka while Hugo stays with his mother in Tokyo. They have a small apartment in Meguro. Hugo is accepted at the Kuhara University and remains living at home with his mother. She is thirty-eight and beautiful so people think she is his girlfriend when they go to the movies.

Hugo waits for Shiro outside of the public baths, the onsen, of the university. He pretends he’s waiting for his friends and drinks Pocari Sweat while Shiro eats dried apricots. Her hair is wet and her face red from the heat of the bath.
Shiro knows Hugo’s friends have already gone back to their rooms when he is sitting on the bench. Because this is her first year at university she is not fully accustomed to the onsen. The women and men are separated, yet she has never seen so many naked girls and women in the same space. One girl is so beautiful, she’s not tall, but her face is oval and her nose well-shaped, and all Shiro can see are her light brown nipples, dark hair, and the color of her skin on her limbs. She envies her soft skin. Shiro is not used to seeing other girls naked and cannot help but look at her own body and then at their breasts and pubic hair.
She is skilled at washing, as a dancer in high school she would carefully bathe every evening. At university Shiro washes after dance, and when she stops dance, she continues to go to the public baths.
I’ve seen you go home in the evening, you don’t live on the campus, but you bathe here? Shiro asks Hugo.
We only have one bath, for me and my mother, it’s very small. I don’t want to be a nuisance. This one here is large, plus the soap and shampoo are free.
Hugo doesn’t tell her his mother is so young and the boxes of tampons in the bathroom make him uncomfortable, as does the shaving cream.
After a month of university Shiro still can’t forget the early mornings of high school. Awake at five am she would take the train from Nishi-Hachioji to Yokohama and walk the ten minutes to school passing by the combini stores. The last year she takes a class on manners and sits with eight other girls on the tatami floor peeling mandarins. By the end of the hour her legs and feet are numb from sitting and her fingernails orange. The teacher shows them how to peel the mandarins so as to leave a flower shaped peel.
She remembers the girls at her high school. One day she wore a ring her mother gave her and they asked if she was engaged. There was no time for boyfriends if she was practicing dance every day after school and stretching for two hours before going to bed. Her mother would make sure she waited five hours between her meals; she said it was better for the stomach. Also, she would give her a glass of milk with a spoonful of plum vinegar; it is good for the digestion. If she were to be a dancer she would have to be thin. Luckily you have my bones, her mother said.

Shiro asks Hugo what he wants to do after he graduates.
Watch trains, he says.
You want to be a train watcher?
Yes, but I’d rather watch the trains that don’t stop at the station. Well, that would be my full time job. My part time job would be Chemist. What about you?
I don’t know. I’m thinking of teaching.

Shiro has a cat and when the cat dies she tells Hugo about it. She sleeps with the cat for a month when she finds out it is sick. He says he is sorry and then asks her if she will go to the public baths with him.
What do you mean? Together?!
Yes. If we go early enough there won’t be anyone. At four am it’s empty. I’ve never seen anyone. Well, there’s this old man who goes to wash around three, but he doesn’t stay longer than half an hour.
They go to the onsen at four am. But since they’ve washed the night before they decide to go for a run, an excuse to clean themselves later. It’s dark and the streets are empty apart from the bakery where light filters through curtains. Shiro doesn’t sweat very much, but Hugo is soaked by the time they get back to Kuhara. The onsen changing room is empty and Shiro notices how the men’s is the same as the women’s room. She’s never undressed before someone other than her mother or the girls she bathes with. She takes her clothes off when his back is turned and wraps a towel around her body.
Can I wash your hair? He asks her. He hasn’t touched her yet and although her hair was washed last night, she agrees.
Shiro rinses herself quickly so they can go into the bath, she can sense his discomfort. The bath is big in the men’s onsen, it is large enough to fit maybe twenty people, and with the two of them alone, steam rising around their arms and face, she feels as if she is dressed.

Hugo is always listening to music and he makes her CDs although he never writes down the song titles. He explains that the order of the songs is crucial and she shouldn’t skip any song, listen to it from track one to track nineteen, he says.
He tells her they took a class last year together but she can’t remember him, it was a two-hundred person lecture and she sat near the front most days. He would sit a few rows behind her and draw the back of her neck, her hair tied up, her ears. There are dozens of small drawings of her ears in his history notebook. She comes upon them one day and asks if he wants to become an otoligist. He says he likes anatomy. Those are your ears, he tells her. You can’t recognize them?
She notices the pearl earrings she used to wear before she lost one down the sink drain.
Her parents think she should live at the University. The rooms at Kuhara University are very small; they have a narrow bed, a light wooden desk and closet, and a small sink in the corner. In the evening she takes thick brown tape and picks up loose hairs from the floor with the sticky side until she thinks it must be clean.
She watches TV on Friday night with her father. It is some Japanese show on who is the strongest man. The men have to go through a variety of obstacles and show their physical endurance, endless monkey bars, walking on their hands in water, and she sees how the men keep falling. They watch another show where a couple has to taste different dishes and say which ingredient or dish is the most expensive: two different steaks, two wines, two sea urchins. On Sunday morning Shiro goes to Hachioji and spends an hour at the Muji store. There are shirts on sale and she buys three beige ones for 5, 000 Yen.
Hugo spends the weekends drawing. He draws a comic strip where a boy is writing at his desk and begins to knock his head on the desk. With each panel blood begins to spread on the table as he slams his head and then the blood decreases and by the last panel he is sitting at his desk with his head intact, writing.

Shiro is at the Kuhara dining hall at eleven am and because it is so busy she gets a bowl of curry rice to avoid the other queues. As she tastes the curry to see if it is mild, she sees Hugo standing next to a table speaking to a few girls. There is one he is looking at while he moves his hands and arms in rhythm with his talking. She is pretty and looks half-Japanese, maybe she’s half-British, Shiro thinks. That’s why she has the lighter hair and smiles easily. He is handing her a CD. Shiro leans in while focusing all her eyesight and she doesn’t notice when her hair falls in the curry because Hugo is now touching the girl on her shoulder. Shiro sucks on her hair and bends her head down to eat. She realizes she’s forgotten to get a spoon for the curry but doesn’t want to stand up in case Hugo might see her. Instead she unwraps her chopsticks and tries to coat them in sauce. She is so concentrated on picking the grains of rice, separated by the curry, that she does not hear or see Hugo when he sits down besides her. He takes the chopsticks from her hand, without speaking yet, and pulls a spoon out of his pocket. Shiro looks down even lower, ashamed.
Thank you, she says quietly.
Are you alright? He asks her. She smiles but doesn’t look at his face when he places the spoon on the table.
The chopsticks were fine, really, she says.
No one eats curry like that, I’ve been watching you for the past five minutes and you’ve barely gotten a spoonful into your body.
You eat it. Shiro says.
You’re not hungry? He looks surprised and rubs the spoon with his palm. He takes the bowl and the chopsticks and starts eating.

Hugo’s friend asks him how he undresses Shiro because she wears so many layers of clothes. Hugo doesn’t know what to answer because he hasn’t had to think about this yet, at least not the taking off the clothes, although he constantly remembers her naked body the morning of the onsen. He also can’t explain why he didn’t do anything that day.
Well, he begins, it’s easy, I just take it off in one go. You know, the tights, the socks, the skirt or the shorts, the underwear, I pull it off all together. Then with the top part I do the same.

He imagines her layers of clothes as the folds of a kimono, maybe because he has been reading Mishima for class, he thinks it is just a maze and that he would untie each item of clothing separately.

When Hugo knocks on the door Shiro is cutting her fingernails. She lets him in and sits back on the bed with her nail-clipper.
Sorry to stop by so late, Hugo says. I’ve just been having trouble with this chemistry homework for tomorrow.
Yes, it took me a while, I finished it about an hour ago though. I can help you if you like.
Why do you even bother with Chemistry if you like literature?
Expand my horizons. She smiles.
Hugo sits next to her and when she is finished cutting her nails, he asks if he can cut his.
I keep forgetting, and I hate it when they’re long.
I can cut them for you if you like, Shiro offers. He looks at her surprised, because she takes his foot and starts untying the laces of his shoes.
What are you doing? He asks.
Your nails? Shiro is now taking his socks off.
No, those are fine, I meant these, he says, waving his hands at her.
You sure you’ve cut your toe nails? I always forget about those. I mean, who looks at their feet really.
She starts clipping and he feels her fingers curl around his toes.
Hugo notices that she’s only wearing cotton pajamas and is disappointed he won’t be able to slowly take the layers off clothes from her body. That is if he can. He doesn’t know why he’s so paralyzed around her and how he has allowed her to touch his feet, they are wide feet and he dislikes their shape. He remembers bathing earlier on so they must be clean. Shiro asks him if he would like to stay the night because it is so late, she says if he would like to, that he doesn’t have to of course. He shouldn’t feel obligated. He stays awake a little longer finishing chemistry but when he slips into bed at around six am, Shiro pulls him to her warm body.

Later when Hugo unbuttons her shirt very slowly, suddenly the prospect of all these buttons, one by one, gives him the same thrilling thoughts that the layers of clothes had excited in him earlier on. Shiro is soon naked and so is Hugo, and though they kiss she tells him she’d prefer they don’t have sex, she says, I hope you don’t mind, but I haven’t before and I’d like to just sleep beside you. He runs his fingers down her spine and then holds her hips close to his body. He thinks, I should have known when she cut my toe nails like that.

When Hugo’s mother comes home she takes her shoes off and as she leans over to hang her coat, lighters and a matchbox fall from her pockets. Hugo looks at the TV as he hears her quickly pick up the matches and lighters, he doesn’t dare look because he knows her cheeks are red by now and her eyes bent down.
Your father wasn’t even there at your birth, Hugo’s mother tells him. He’s heard the story a hundred times but he still sits at the table listening.
Instead of coming to the hospital he had to stop by the house and check on your brother, for goodness sake he was eleven years old, not like he couldn’t take care of himself while I was in labor at the hospital. He was ten minutes late and it took you ten minutes to be born.
Hugo knows what she’ll say next. He treated me as if I were his concubine, his mother tells him.
Because he knows her story and he doesn’t want to show he is ignoring her, Hugo helps her in the kitchen as she makes the dinner. Tonight she cooks vegetable and shrimp tempura. After dinner Hugo can smell the oil and batter on his clothes and hair, he showers and washes himself twice, Shiro will not like this stink, he thinks, throwing his clothes in the washing machine, this will not do.

Friday afternoon Shiro’s parents aren’t home, her father is in Hokkaido for the week-end giving a talk and her mother at work until late. She invites Hugo to visit her home and shows him the temple attached to her house.
This is where my father holds the ceremonies, she tells him, opening a door at the end of the hallway. The temple is about twice the size of their house, and when Hugo looks through the doorway he sees yellow and red, the thick tatami floor and mikan oranges in ceramic bowls. He goes into the bathroom and smokes into the mirror making sure the ventilator is on.

It’s raining and Shiro forgets her umbrella but she stands in Shibuya next to the statue of the Hachiko dog and ties her hair up so it won’t look so wet. She looks up at the statue, an Akita dog, grey and over-sized, she thinks. There are hundreds of people in the square holding umbrellas waiting to meet people. It is already seven minutes past twelve and she wonders why her father is late. She sees him walking quickly towards Hachiko, holding a dark blue umbrella, and he waves when he sees her.
You’re soaking, Shiro, did you forget your umbrella again.
It broke, she says, I didn’t forget it.
He holds the umbrella over her as they choose where to have lunch. They settle on a ramen place and as soon as they sit down he orders two teas. So cold out there today, he says, rubbing his fingers.

Hugo finds an envelope on the kitchen table. Inside is a note from his mother saying she has gone for a few days to the mountains and will be back soon. She’s left him 10, 000 Yen folded in a slip of paper. Hugo thinks of his mother, she’s still young, thirty-eight and that’s not so bad for the mother of a university student. He re-reads the note but there is no mention of which mountains she’s going to, he wonders if she’s all the way up north or just an hour from Tokyo. Outside the weather is dry and the sky white, it’ll be snowing soon, and as Hugo closes the blinds he knows she will be gone for a few weeks. He watches TV until it is dark outside and then looks in the fridge for dinner. There’s nothing to eat so he goes to the 7-11 down the street. It’s almost empty but the lights are still incredibly bright and he feels his eyes squint as he walks through the aisles. There are some freshly packed meals, he tries to find something without MSG and finally he picks up three onigiri. Outside the weather isn’t too cold even though it’s almost the middle of December, maybe it won’t snow after all. Hugo gets a beer from the vending machine and decides to eat at the park. It’s not really a park, more a small playground where children come during the day after school. The swings are empty and he sits at the bottom of a slide, leaning back on the plastic frame. The ground is a hard, beaten earth, there are no trees and he laughs out loud at the dismal surroundings. No crows even, he thinks. Looking up the sky is now a blackish grey and he can hear the highway nearby. He cranes his neck to an opening between two tall houses and sees the thick columns of lighted buildings. The onigiri are individually wrapped, the rice is soft and he eats them between gulps of beer. He thinks of Shiro and how he doesn’t know how to speak to her. Maybe she would like his mother, he can see them traveling together to the mountains. He’ll take her on a train ride tomorrow he decides. It was a stupid idea, the bathing. He doesn’t know what went through his mind, of course the thought of seeing her naked. Though he’d been so embarrassed of his own nakedness that he’d kept the towel wrapped around his waist as he washed her hair. She had held her towel against her chest, covering the front of her body. He thought anyone would have found it ridiculous, the whole situation, them with their towels in an onsen. When Shiro was rinsing her hands, her back turned to him, Hugo had slipped into the water where the steam was so heavy you could barely see. He’d looked down when he saw her legs close to the edge.
He falls asleep on the slide and is woken up around five in the morning because of the cold and the sky is already a light grey. When he sits up a homeless man is crouching on the far side of the playground looking at Hugo. The man is small and sits quietly on the ground with a few plastic bags and a backpack. Hugo gets up and instinctively bows his head to the man, throwing his beer can in a bin on his way out. Back at the apartment he washes his teeth and wonders if it’s too early to call Shiro.
Do you want to get breakfast? He asks her, at six am. Her voice is very small but she has picked up after four rings.
Now?
He doesn’t respond and she quickly picks up the conversation.
Yes ok, where do you want to go?
My mother’s not home, do you want to come over, I could make you something?
He gives her the address and she says she’ll be there in a half hour.
Hugo buys eggs, milk although he rarely drinks it, spring onions, salmon and daikon radish pickles. He’s preparing a rolled omelet and grilled salmon when Shiro rings the bell downstairs.
How come you’re awake so early yet you always sleep in class? Shiro asks.
You noticed?
Your head is flat on the desk! Well, most of the class is asleep in French.
Because the professor hardly speaks in French. I swear if the class actually was in French I’d be wide awake.
Hugo, is your mother nice?
She’s so-so. It depends, most of the time she’s not at home.
Oh. What does she do?
She’s a hostess, though you know, she won’t tell me. She smells of cigarettes but I know she doesn’t smoke and she also practices Karaoke singing when she thinks I’m sleeping. Well, she’s not so good of a singer but she’s improving her skills.
Mine doesn’t sing but she doesn’t go out either. She had me so late, who gets pregnant at the age of forty-five?
She doesn’t look so old though, from the photos you showed me.
Well, she does have very little white hair and she’s small.
Hugo and Shiro don’t speak for a while, Hugo doesn’t know what to say next, now that he’s sitting beside her and they’re alone, it is not like outside of the common baths, where there was the light and sound of shifting bodies.

Hugo is talking to a Mexican exchange student, her name is Perla, Pearl, Shiro mutters, and looks at Perla’s dark skin and brown hair. Sometimes Shiro thinks her own skin is yellow but then she realizes it is just the lighting, and she doesn’t want to bleach her skin white like the other Japanese girls with their whitening toners. Perla is short, but at least her legs are long and she smiles at Hugo while he waves goodbye as he walks away from the table.
Shiro! Hugo says, stopping next to her. She stands up and feels her legs are short, she hopes the black pants will lengthen them and passes her hands over the orange cotton shirt to feel her stomach.
I have to go to class in a few minutes, Shiro says as she pulls a bag onto her shoulder. She has to hold it there because her shoulders are too small and the strap slips along her arm.
Hugo asks what class and when she tells him it is the Genji and Heike one, he laughs and says what a waste of time, yet he decides to walk with her. Shiro is a little embarrassed to walk with Hugo, he bounces and with each step his body seems to reach upward, to then fall in rhythm. They walk in silence because Hugo’s eyes are facing the sky and Shiro looks around making sure there are no obstacles in his way.
Where’s your backpack? Shiro asks.
I don’t have one. It’s at home but I never use it.
You don’t take notes?
Nope! Here, I have a pen and small notepad. But I prefer not taking notes, helps me remember if I just listen, and he taps at his head looking over at her before going back to the sky.

You don’t want to spend time with your mother anymore, do you? You’ve met a girl, Hugo, haven’t you?
Hugo doesn’t respond and sits at the table looking at his mother.
You’re like your father. Well can I at least meet her?
No. Hugo stands up. I’ll be back later, I won’t eat dinner here.
What are you going to eat? I made soba! I thought it was your favorite.
I prefer ramen.
Going to see the girl? Do you know what your father did to me, how he humiliated me in front of his friends and coworkers, the way he spoke about me and how he made our private life a public affair?
Yes, and see, I don’t speak to him.
An hour later he returns and apologizes, blushing as his mother accepts.

Hello Shiro, I’m Keiko. Hugo’s mother bends forward and Shiro bows with her hands folded below her abdomen.
Thank you for having me to dinner, Keiko.
It’s about time! Hugo hardly ever talks about his friends. I don’t know about them until he brings them home.
Hugo gets orange juice and he sits at the table with Shiro while his mother starts dishing out food onto ceramic plates.
These have been in the family for years, she tells Shiro, holding a plate. Some of them have broken but they’re irreplaceable. We had to fix them with gold and she points at the dark yellow specks in the cracks.
There is beef, rice, cucumber pickles and broccoli. I have also azuki beans for dessert, you like sweets yes?
Shiro nods.
What are you studying, Shiro?
Japanese Literature.
I see. Oh you must have heard of Yoshimoto Banana.
Yes, I’ve read a few of her books.
Funny name isn’t it. And your father is a Comparative Religion professor, right?
Yes, Shiro says surprised.
I looked up your family name in the University website, Keiko smiles.
Shiro feels Hugo’s hand under the table touch hers.
Did you have to go to such an extreme? He asks his mother.
I’m sorry, I was curious, the name sounded familiar. Okuma. Such a nice ring to it. Three syllables. I wonder, I don’t mean to be indiscreet, is Okuma the same Okuma Shigenobu?
Shiro bows her head and her hair falls in a fringe hiding her eyes.
Oh my goodness! Why he was a prime minister! Oh, Hugo, you could have told me! You always leave out the details. It must be incredible having parents like yours, how lucky of you, having such brilliance in the family.

In her last year of high school Shiro goes to Happoen Garden early in the morning. It used to be her grandfather’s home before the war, now it is a museum and park. She takes food for the fish and feeds the koi. She crouches down on a stone by the edge of the pond and pokes her finger in the water, but because there is moss on the stones she loses her balance. Just as she feels her feet slip she tries to hold on but her fingers close on water. Only her legs and arms are wet, the pond is shallow, yet the wind is so cold that her bare legs are numb. She has to go home and change but then feels tired and decides to skip school. Her parents aren’t home so she takes omochi and toasts it in the oven until the rice dumpling is soft. She chews on it and sits in the temple looking at the shrine her father cleans every morning. The room is dark but the gold and red are brilliant and she leans back spreading her body on the tatami floor. When she wakes up she feels rubbed in incense.

Hugo looks at the people on the train and sees that most of the passengers are asleep. He can feel the hot air blow on his legs, nobody smells, he thinks. An old lady walks in holding two shopping bags, they look heavy and she is breathing hard so he stands up offering his seat. She scowls at Hugo and asks him if she really looks that old. He sits back when she doesn’t move and instead clutches a metal bar next to the doors.

He gets off and switches to the Yamanote line to Meguro station. He hasn’t seen Shiro in two months, first she was sick and then his mother asked him to spend the month of his holidays in Kobe, and he hasn’t spoken to her since his return.

It is five in the morning when he goes to the communal baths, a little too late he thinks, some of the early risers will be arriving in a half hour or so. If he is lucky no one will be there until six am. The sun is rising and Tokyo is grey, but the air is dry and he likes that for once he’s not wiping his face from the humidity. Shiro is not in the men’s changing room, why should she be, he remembers she is a girl after all and is ashamed of their bath. It seems childish now, but he senses a slight intoxication at the thought of it, and then quickly undresses.
She calls him around midday and apologizes for not speaking to him earlier. He apologizes, I should have called you when I got home. He knows she is quiet and will not respond to this.
When Shiro goes to the public baths there are four Australian exchange students who have arrived in the morning. Three are girls and they stand in the changing room dressed, unsure of how to proceed. Two strip down to bathing suits and walk into the onsen holding towels to their chest, the third girl goes back to her room saying she’s clean and doesn’t feel the need to wash just yet.

this story first published by the Creative Writing Program at the University of Pennsylvania

Sanaë Lemoine

Blossom

by Donigan Merritt

reviewed by Stephen Page

So, I’m in Brazzaville, right? And I’m in this canoe, and this local is paddling me up the river between Congo and Zaire, when all of a sudden this hippo surfaces right next to the canoe, and, well I’m thinking I’m gonna die, right, and the hippo opens his mouth, and I stand up and I open my cell phone to call home to tell Mom I love her, and I look down at the screen I notice the phone’s connected to the net and it’s opened to this webpage, and I start reading and I forget about the hippo, and everything is fine, and I’m floating up the river past the hippo and I’m feeling great and the reading is interesting, and on Don Merritt’s website I find a link to read a preview of his novel, Blossom, and I’m reading the book and I’m still floating up the river and I’m still standing up in the canoe and I Discover Blossom is a book that makes me feel that literature is still alive, that the novel is not dead, so I order a copy of the book on-line and as soon as I press the “buy” button, the local paddling the canoe turns the canoe toward the shore and rams the canoe into the muddy bank and I leap off into the mud and trudge my way up this trail and find my friend, who works with orphaned gorillas, waiting for me at the edge of the jungle and we go off to save some orphans. Oh, here is Mr. Merritt’s webpage: Random Literary Blogging.

Donigan Merritt was born in southwest Arkansas in 1945.  He has worked as a journalist, scuba diver, fishing boat captain, and university professor.  He has a BA and MA degree in philosophy and an MFA in Creative Writing from the Iowa Writers Workshop. He is currently living in Buenos Aires; with his diplomat wife who has lived in Central Europe, South Africa, and Germany.

donigan-merrittpicture of author, Donigan Merritt

Daniel Fuster at the café El Histórico 24 November

laabuelacvrbydanielfusterDaniel Fuster will present his new book  Grandmother Luisa and other stories on the 24th of November at 18:30 hours (6:30 PM) at the café El Histórico located on Mexico 524, Buenos Aires.

Here are a couple of links to Mr. Fuster’s blogs

http://laabuelaluisa.blogspot.com/

http://danielfuster.blogspot.com/

The book is available at El Ateneo

Home Of The Brave

homeofthebrave
Home Of The Brave
“Stories in Uniform”
Edited by Jeffery Hess
Press 53, 331 pages. $19.95
Reviewed by Stephen Page

With Home of the Brave, editor Jeffery Hess puts together a collection of short stories about people in the U.S. military. The period covered is from World War II to the present. Although many of the stories refer to war, very few depict actual battles.

Let me reiterate that these are stories about people—humane stories, humanistic stories, stories about humanity.

This book will appeal to almost every reader, civilian and military alike.  Jeffery Hess does a fine job in choosing stories that have empathetic characters, hard-hitting human drama, and convincing plots.  The tales stick with you, the reader, long after you read them.   Some of these stories will shock you; some will hit you right at home.

A portion of proceeds from each book sold is donated to USA Cares.

Read more about the book here:
Home of the Brave

Read interviews with the editor:
Dennis Miller Show

Mary Akers Blog

This book may be purchased here:

Barnes & Noble

Abe Books

Amazon

Home of the Brave

Powells

Better World Books

A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees

aplaceofmeadowsandsmalltrees

Watch the video introducing the book on YouTube

Check the book website: A Place of Meadows and Tall Trees

Gander through the author’s website: Clare Dudman

Buy the book on Amazon

The Wild Iris by Louise Glück

Reviewed by Stephen Page

In The Wild Iris, Louise Glück allows flowers and other plants to
speak. A gardener tending the plants also speaks, most often in
prayer. Another voice, the deity prayed to by the gardener, speaks
omnisciently. Glück’s garden, like life, brings unexpected joys and
disappointments—the first sprouts, an early bloom, reoccurring
weeds, a too-soon death. Although a reader may initially find it
confusing who is speaking in the poems, I think Glück did this for a
reason.

The first poem in the collection grants an iris voice:

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in the low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

The book’s major themes are set up in this first poem: death (as
metaphoric winter), resurrection, and the role of nature. The iris has
survived winter as a bulb or rhizome. It rises again in spring with a
vague sense of a suffered life and a dream-like dormancy. The
questions a reader may ask are: Does the flower actually speak, and,
is anyone listening? A partial answer may be in the very next poem,
the first in a series of ‘Matins’ (morning prayer).

. . . Noah says
depressives hate the spring, imbalance
between the inner and outer world. I make
another case—being depressed, yes, but in a sense passionately
attached to the living tree, my body
actually curled in the split trunk, almost at peace,
in the evening rain
almost able to feel
sap frothing and rising: Noah says this is
an error of depressives, identifying
with a tree whereas the happy heart
wanders the garden like a , a figure for
the part, not the whole.

Here the gardener speaks to a deity while simultaneously revealing to
the reader her mental state and personality—she is depressed and
identifies with a plant. She projects herself into the plant. Since
Noah has told her she should think of herself as an entity detached
from the rest of the world, he is probably rebutting her theory that
we all are a part of a whole.

The next ‘Matins’ refers to the Garden of Eden. Eve realizes her
mortality and feels abandoned by God. The next three poems,
‘Trillium’, ‘Lamium’, and ‘Snowdrops,’ are plant poems
that reemphasize themes of despair, death, resurrection, and
instinctual (though vague) memories of past lives.

When woke up I was in a forest. The dark
seemed natural, the sky through the pine trees
thick with many lights.

. . .

This is how you live when you have a cold heart.
As I do: in shadows, trailing over rock,
under the great maple trees.

. . .

do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.

I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
damp in the earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again . . .

With the next poem, ‘Clear Morning,’ a reader logically concludes
that Morning is speaking, because of the title but also because the
previous ‘flower poems’ use similar first person points-of-view
while addressing the gardener as “you.” What the reader actually
hears in the poem is the voice of God.

I’ve watched you long enough,
I can speak to you any way I like—

I’ve submitted to your preferences, observing patiently
the things you love, speaking

through vehicles only, in
details of earth, as you prefer,

tendrils
of blue clematis, light

of early evening—
you would never accept

a voice like mine, indifferent
to the objects you busily name,

your mouths
small circles of awe—

And all this time
I indulged your limitations, thinking

you would cast it aside yourselves sooner or later,
thinking matter could not absorb your gaze forever—

obstacles of the clematis painting
blue flowers on the porch window—

I cannot go on
restricting myself to images

because you think it is your right
to dispute my meaning:

I am prepared now to force
clarity upon you.

God is condescending, angry, fed up. He is the jaded creator, scolding
and didactic, detached yet fatherly. He is tired of listening to
meager human concerns and is tired of speaking through “vehicles,”
yet He paradoxically disguises himself as Morning.

Reading back over the previous flower poems, then reading further in
the book, a reader will note that the flowers and other plants expound
on topics that initiate within the mind of the gardener. They also
speak in a patronizing tone (a  of the God
portrayed); e.g., “hear me out,” “what are you saying?” and
“Not I, you idiot.”

The rest of the collection continues similarly. God scolds the
gardener, flowers and plants echo the gardener in a Godly timbre, and
the gardener pleads to God using plant-life analogies. They all take
turns speaking, as if allowing each other input in a
conversation—yet, ironically, amongst all this verbal exchange, very
little communication takes place. God hears the gardener but does not
listen to her. The plants scream but the gardener appears deaf. God
bellows, but nobody hears him. Obviously the book is written not so
the characters will learn and change, but so the reader may decipher
and conclude.

Glück crafts stunning poetry in this collection. Her imagery is
vibrant, her language immediate, her personification convincing. The
major debate throughout the collection, whether we actually resurrect
or not, comes to no clear conclusion—in fact, contradictory answers
are given. In one poem it is said that the soul is eternal. In another
it says nothing lasts forever. The book could be read as stating that
the Biblical order of things does not exist, that florae are not the
lowest forms on earth, and that we as humans do not ascend to heaven.
A canonical gardener drives the collection, but Glück leaves open the
option for a non-anthropomorphic God—one who has no conceivable
form. Ambivalence in speaker voice may be a way to say that we are all
connected—human beings, nature, and God. Since plants attempt to
answer the questions the narrator is asking, and since God speaks
through the elements, it seems that Glück is saying that
understanding nature is a way of comprehending the physical and
spiritual makings of the world—one only has to listen well and weigh
the contradictions.

This review first published on Classic Book Club

Buy The Wild Iris on Amazon

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS — HINCHAS DE POESIA

                                                                        Yago S. Cura :: Publisher & Curator
                                                                          J. David Gonzalez :: Fiction Editor
                                                                                Jim Heavily :: Poetry Editor
                                                                                www.hinchasdepoesia.com
Friends:
Hinchas de Poesia, an on-line literary journal based in Los Angeles, is now accepting submissions for its fifth issue. In addition to original and previously unpublished poetry & fiction, we are also interested in translations & art work. For complete details, please visit our website. Deadline for submissions is November 1, 2011.
Past contributors include Tomaž Šalamun, Campbell McGrath, Abel Folgar, Yaddyra Peralta, Luivette Resto, Jim Cervantes, Chip Livingston, Marco Bravo, James Iredell, David Spicer, Nick Vagnoni, Maureen Alsop, and Stephen Page.
Hinchas is also glad to accept postal submissions which can be sent to the following address:
                          Jim Heavily
                          c/o Hinchas de Poesia
                          6501 E, Whitier St.
                          Wake Forest NC 27587.
Feel free to share this e-mail with your associates or students. In addition to innovative & experimental writing, Hinchas is also interested in new or seldom heard voices. We look forward to your best work.
¡Salud!
Yago S. Cura
J. David Gonzalez
Jim Heavily