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Tenement Press is an occasional publisher of esoteric,
accidental, angular, & interdisciplinary literatures.
‘My head is my only house unless it rains’
Don Glen Vliet
Tenement Press is an occasional publisher of esoteric,
accidental, angular, & interdisciplinary literatures.
‘My head is my only house unless it rains’
Don Glen Vliet
‘Were a wind to arise
I could put up a sail
Were there no sail
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I’d make one of canvas and sticks’
Bertolt Brecht, ‘Motto’
(Bucknow Elegies)
I could put up a sail
Were there no sail
Bertolt Brecht, ‘Motto’
(Bucknow Elegies)
Rehearsal / 19. Jorge Yglesias / Three Stories
Translated from the Spanish by Peter Bush
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Translated from the Spanish by Peter Bush
I. ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL
¶ At 9.36am on the eve of the summer solstice, three blocks away from the Minerva Street and Elm Tree Avenue crossroads, directly in front of the small locksmiths to the right of the three-storey building the entrance to which (Minerva 17-A) awakes the curiosity of passers-by with its gigantic door-knocker in the shape of four snakes devouring each other, constable W, off-duty at this time as indicated by his civilian clothes, ambled leisurely along the wide pavement. When he was about to turn the corner, in search of somewhere to drink a beer away from the sun which was already provoking an irritating itch on his skin, he had to stop dead upon witnessing a highly significant spectacle: legs in the air, on the very edge of the curb, an adult frog, injured who knows why, waved its limbs spasmodically for a period of time, then stopped still for a few moments, in a position that brought to mind the posture of ballet dancers in a Degas painting, only immediately to resume its agonised dance.
For constable W, fond of philosophy, and at this point attempting to get over a break-up with his fiancée (who dumped him for a brazen moustachioed butcher) by reading Descartes, it was a providential encounter. As if afraid of upsetting the animal with the sound of his footsteps, he tiptoed forwards holding his breath. A few centimetres away from the frog, he bent down till his chin almost touched his knees, and struck a contemplative stance, hands on thigh and mouth half-open. The agony of that res extensa reaffirmed W’s condition as a res cogitante, as he cocked his head and considered the behaviour of the batrachian. “If the finite, imperfect, weak, doubting and ignorant being that I am were to think of a perfect frog, endowed with mind and imagination, and not this mess of unreasoning organs” W reflected, “would he be creating false evidence? And if a superior being put this idea into me, the perfect-frog-idea, would it only affirm the existence of that being and then could I say ‘here with the image of God, a way to know him’ and ‘I think “perfect frog,” therefore I am?’
Enlightened by these cogitations, W began to feel a strange fulfilment and instinctively stretched out an arm to touch the frog. But the animal’s ridiculous death throes reminded him of the mechanism of a broken clock, lacked spiritual substance. ‘Mute thing,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot act as reason makes me act, nor have nor expect anything beyond this life.’ Fully convinced that the thinking subject W was the only sure and certain thing, and of the futility of trying to hold on to a world that eludes one, the constable sprang up with the elasticity of a fencer, stamped his heel down on the frog and was left alone with his thoughts.
II. WAR & PEACE
¶ At dusk, just as a death rattle of light defines the agonic horizon, General K shuts himself in his bedroom not before he has imposed a unanimous silence on his entire family and domestic service. Standing before the high mirror that occupies the middle section of a veteran mahogany wardrobe, K strips off theatrically, slowly, his eyes dwelling on his reflection. Revealing a curiosity at the very edge of the credible, real warrior and virtual warrior engage in several minutes of mute dialogue, punctuated by brief smiles and a lightning arching of eyebrows. Heels hard together and chests puffed out, they salute each other several times before beginning to march on the same spot. One-two, one-two, one-two, they mentally repeat, one-two, one-two, and soon stand at ease. Immediately (and ever looking at each other), they stroke the fronts of their bodies, between neck and groin, lingering on nipples and pubic hair. Apply hands to testicles, occasionally move buttocks-wise, a to and fro of fingertips that leads to a discreet erection. The moment then comes when General K grasps his lengthy member and pulls it back intensely rhythmically till it hits its root, while the index finger on his left hand describes small circles around his anus. When the phallus expands, reaches maximum dilation, begins to dribble, K draws nearer to the mirror till his glans touches the glass. On tiptoe, fingers leaning on the polished surface, he screws up his eyes and joins his lips to those of the other K in a kiss at once chaste and passionate. He stays thus for a long time, tongue moistening, breath misting the glass. Suddenly, in a brusque transition, he moves from the mirror, swings round and heads towards the desk beside his bed, one-two, one-two, his colossal cock lashing around, his arms imitating a long-distance runner. When he reaches the elegant Louis XIV chair, he gives a whimper of pleasure, sits down, and, with a flourish of his goose quill, buries himself in the writing of his memoir.
¶ Hour after hour Henrietta sits on her bed of straw, head bowed and beautiful, never stirring or saying a word. When the rays of the twilight sun project a cross over the centre of her cell, her jailers are moved by the impact it has on the maiden, who starts humming a lullaby while her hands act as if they’re drawing water from a fountain. As the day approaches when her head will roll at her executioner’s feet, speculation grows as to the motive that transformed her into a murderer. The voices, hazy in her ears, that try to extract a confession, vanish into the air and never touch her, because Henrietta is already adrift in a region saturated by music beyond the understanding of humans. How could such a maidenly girl behead her neighbour’s child, one she occasionally cared for? Why did she throw the child’s head to the pigs, set fire to her house, then sit on the grass to contemplate the flames, unblinking, deaf to the cries of villagers who were quick to surround her but loathe to touch her, terrified by the sweetness emanating from her face?
Neither the instruments of torture nor the expertise of her confessors succeeded in dragging from the murderer any other words than those she uttered at the time of her arrest. ‘It was an idea,’ she said with a velvet firmness of tone. ‘It was an idea,’ she repeats slightly modulating her voice.
¶ At 9.36am on the eve of the summer solstice, three blocks away from the Minerva Street and Elm Tree Avenue crossroads, directly in front of the small locksmiths to the right of the three-storey building the entrance to which (Minerva 17-A) awakes the curiosity of passers-by with its gigantic door-knocker in the shape of four snakes devouring each other, constable W, off-duty at this time as indicated by his civilian clothes, ambled leisurely along the wide pavement. When he was about to turn the corner, in search of somewhere to drink a beer away from the sun which was already provoking an irritating itch on his skin, he had to stop dead upon witnessing a highly significant spectacle: legs in the air, on the very edge of the curb, an adult frog, injured who knows why, waved its limbs spasmodically for a period of time, then stopped still for a few moments, in a position that brought to mind the posture of ballet dancers in a Degas painting, only immediately to resume its agonised dance.
For constable W, fond of philosophy, and at this point attempting to get over a break-up with his fiancée (who dumped him for a brazen moustachioed butcher) by reading Descartes, it was a providential encounter. As if afraid of upsetting the animal with the sound of his footsteps, he tiptoed forwards holding his breath. A few centimetres away from the frog, he bent down till his chin almost touched his knees, and struck a contemplative stance, hands on thigh and mouth half-open. The agony of that res extensa reaffirmed W’s condition as a res cogitante, as he cocked his head and considered the behaviour of the batrachian. “If the finite, imperfect, weak, doubting and ignorant being that I am were to think of a perfect frog, endowed with mind and imagination, and not this mess of unreasoning organs” W reflected, “would he be creating false evidence? And if a superior being put this idea into me, the perfect-frog-idea, would it only affirm the existence of that being and then could I say ‘here with the image of God, a way to know him’ and ‘I think “perfect frog,” therefore I am?’
Enlightened by these cogitations, W began to feel a strange fulfilment and instinctively stretched out an arm to touch the frog. But the animal’s ridiculous death throes reminded him of the mechanism of a broken clock, lacked spiritual substance. ‘Mute thing,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot act as reason makes me act, nor have nor expect anything beyond this life.’ Fully convinced that the thinking subject W was the only sure and certain thing, and of the futility of trying to hold on to a world that eludes one, the constable sprang up with the elasticity of a fencer, stamped his heel down on the frog and was left alone with his thoughts.
II. WAR & PEACE
¶ At dusk, just as a death rattle of light defines the agonic horizon, General K shuts himself in his bedroom not before he has imposed a unanimous silence on his entire family and domestic service. Standing before the high mirror that occupies the middle section of a veteran mahogany wardrobe, K strips off theatrically, slowly, his eyes dwelling on his reflection. Revealing a curiosity at the very edge of the credible, real warrior and virtual warrior engage in several minutes of mute dialogue, punctuated by brief smiles and a lightning arching of eyebrows. Heels hard together and chests puffed out, they salute each other several times before beginning to march on the same spot. One-two, one-two, one-two, they mentally repeat, one-two, one-two, and soon stand at ease. Immediately (and ever looking at each other), they stroke the fronts of their bodies, between neck and groin, lingering on nipples and pubic hair. Apply hands to testicles, occasionally move buttocks-wise, a to and fro of fingertips that leads to a discreet erection. The moment then comes when General K grasps his lengthy member and pulls it back intensely rhythmically till it hits its root, while the index finger on his left hand describes small circles around his anus. When the phallus expands, reaches maximum dilation, begins to dribble, K draws nearer to the mirror till his glans touches the glass. On tiptoe, fingers leaning on the polished surface, he screws up his eyes and joins his lips to those of the other K in a kiss at once chaste and passionate. He stays thus for a long time, tongue moistening, breath misting the glass. Suddenly, in a brusque transition, he moves from the mirror, swings round and heads towards the desk beside his bed, one-two, one-two, his colossal cock lashing around, his arms imitating a long-distance runner. When he reaches the elegant Louis XIV chair, he gives a whimper of pleasure, sits down, and, with a flourish of his goose quill, buries himself in the writing of his memoir.
III. THE FLAME OF AN IDEA
¶ Hour after hour Henrietta sits on her bed of straw, head bowed and beautiful, never stirring or saying a word. When the rays of the twilight sun project a cross over the centre of her cell, her jailers are moved by the impact it has on the maiden, who starts humming a lullaby while her hands act as if they’re drawing water from a fountain. As the day approaches when her head will roll at her executioner’s feet, speculation grows as to the motive that transformed her into a murderer. The voices, hazy in her ears, that try to extract a confession, vanish into the air and never touch her, because Henrietta is already adrift in a region saturated by music beyond the understanding of humans. How could such a maidenly girl behead her neighbour’s child, one she occasionally cared for? Why did she throw the child’s head to the pigs, set fire to her house, then sit on the grass to contemplate the flames, unblinking, deaf to the cries of villagers who were quick to surround her but loathe to touch her, terrified by the sweetness emanating from her face?
Neither the instruments of torture nor the expertise of her confessors succeeded in dragging from the murderer any other words than those she uttered at the time of her arrest. ‘It was an idea,’ she said with a velvet firmness of tone. ‘It was an idea,’ she repeats slightly modulating her voice.
Jorge Yglesias is a poet, writer, literary translator, film critic. Yglesias is head of the Chair of Humanities and a professor of Film History and Aesthetics of Documentary in the International School of Cinema and TV (EICTV) of San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba. Readings, lectures and courses include cultural centres and institutions in Paris, Lille, Marseille, Arles, Norwich, Cambridge, Berlin, Vienna, Montreal, Toronto, Caracas, Valencia (Venezuela), Bogotá, Cartagena and Santiago de los Caballeros. Residencies include the Centre International de Poesie, Marseille (2000), Austrian Literary Society (1997, 1998), Direction du Livre et de la Lecture du Ministère de la Culture de France (2001), and British Centre for Literary Translation (2003). Yglesias was awarded the National Prize for Film Criticism (1998, 1999, 2003), the National Prize for Literary Translation (1998), the Unesco Prize to the Best Translation of Pushkin (1999), the Austrian Literary Translation Prize (2000), and the Literary Translation Prize of the College International des Traducteurs Littéraires de Arles (2002).
Peter Bush is a translator. His first literary translation was Juan Goytisolo’s Forbidden Territory (North Point Press, 1989) and Bush has to date translated eleven other titles in Goytisolo’s bibliography, including The Marx Family Saga and Exiled from Almost Everywhere. He has translated many Catalan writers including Josep Pla, Mercè Rodoreda, Joan Sales, Najat El Hachmi and Teresa Solana. His most recent effort is A Film (3000 meters) by Víctor Català, the classic 1919 feminist novel set in Barcelona’s criminal underworld. Bush lives and works in Bristol.
