Hot on the heels of my recent read of Jenny Erpenbeck's Aller Tage Abend (The End of Days) comes another piece of contemporary German-language literature, one which has a couple of similarities to Erpenbeck's novel. For one thing, it's another book by a woman in translation (which I'm sure will please Biblibio!). The other one is perhaps more relevant - once again, it's a book which you'll be able to check out in English for yourself very soon...
*****
Milena Michiko Flašar's Ich nannte ihn Krawatte (I Called Him Necktie, out now from New Vessel Press) is the story of Hiro Taguchi, a young Japanese man who has spent the past two years in self-imposed exile inside his bedroom. He belongs to the group of Japanese society called Hikikomori, people who, unable to cope with the stress of the outside world, decide to stay in their rooms instead.
At the start of the book, Hiro takes his first, faltering steps back into the real world, deciding that a walk in the park might do him good. As he sits on a bench in the park, watching the rest of the world go by (being very careful not to interact with any of the passers-by), he notices a man on the bench opposite his, another person in no hurry to leave his comfortable seat. As the days go by, the two men gradually get to know each other, nodding to each other when arriving and leaving, until one day the older man crosses the gravel path dividing them, sitting down next to Hiro and starting a conversation - which is when Hiro realises that the Hikikomori aren't the only ones suffering under the weight of Japanese society...
Ich nannte ihn Krawatte is a wonderful little book which uses an unlikely relationship between two different men to tell the story of modern Japanese society. The first is a high-school drop-out; the second, a salaryman who has lost his job - the reader is given an insight into the stresses of Japanese daily life through the eyes of the exhausted corporate hero, and a young man who can't bear to enter that world. As the two get closer and begin to tell stories about their lives, explaining what events brought them to their bench in the open air, Hiro's eyes are opened, and he begins to realise that his desire to hide away from the rest of the world is far from unique.
Right from the start, we're aware that we're looking back on a sad story, with the first page informing the reader that the events Hiro is to relate already belong to the past:
"Ich nannte ihn Krawatte. Der Name gefiel ihm. Er brachte ihn zum Lachen. Rotgraue Streifen an seiner Brust. So will ich ihn in Erinnerung behalten."
p.7 (Verlag Klaus Wagenbach, 2012)
"I called him necktie. The name pleased him. It made him laugh. Red-and-grey stripes across his chest. That's how I want to remember him" *** (my translation)
The relationship that slowly progresses, then, is one we already know is destined to end, and the stories the two men tell contain many others which have failed to go the distance.
Many of these stories involve people who are different, a state of affairs which can have consequences in a society which prides itself on being homogeneous. Whether it's a student who hides his ability in spoken English, or the poet who has no desire to join the rat race, the nail that sticks up, as the Japanese proverb goes, will be hammered down - and that hammering can be just as brutal as the metaphor would suggest. What evolves from the stories is a picture of a society where the different are stigmatised, and Hiro's withdrawal from the world is partly because he is haunted by his own passivity in the face of injustice.
This leads to a fear of relationships, a reluctance to get to close to anyone who might be able to damage him emotionally at a later date:
"Ich wollte
niemandem begegnen. Jemandem zu begegnen bedeutet, sich zu verwickeln.
Es wird ein unsichtbarer Faden geknüpft." (p.8)
"I didn't want to meet anyone. Meeting people means getting involved. An invisible thread is bound." ***
At the height of his issues, even the thought of touching others, or being touched by their hair, for example, brings him out in a cold sweat. All of which, surprisingly, reminds him of own, rather distant, father...
The longer the story goes on, the more important Hiro's father becomes, as we come to sense that Tetsu, the office drone who has been thrown out of the hive, is the young man's key to understanding his parents. In fact, he serves as a representative, the human face even, of the vast army of salarymen keeping the country afloat:
"Seine gebügelte Gestalt war die tausender anderer, die tagein und tagaus die Straßen füllen. Sie strömen aus dem Bauch der stadt und verschwinden in hohen Gebäuden, in deren Fenstern der himmel in einzelne Teile zerbricht." (p.13)
"His washed-out figure was that of thousands of others who, day in and day out, fill the streets. They stream out of the belly of the city and disappear into high buildings, in whose windows the sky shatters into scattered pieces." ***
The flip-side of this well-oiled machine is the relentless pressure of society, one which decrees that you must do this - or else. Testsu, who was an unquestioning part of the machine for decades, is now old, used up (he can't even keep up with the corporate drinking culture) and must be removed from the machine like a worn-out part...
Another important theme of the book is the importance of face. Ironically, while both Hiro and Tetsu are transgressing against cultural norms, they are allowed to remove themselves from society because others are ashamed to confront them for fear of what the neighbours might think:
"Mein Glück ist es, dass man mich bis heute in Ruhe gelassen hat. Denn es gibt auch solche, die man herausgelockt hat. Man verspricht ihnen eine Wiedereingliederung. Genesung auch. Arbeit. Erfolg. Mit diesen dünnen Versprechen auf den Lippen werden sie Schritt für Schritt zurück in die Gesellschaft, jenes große Gemeinsame, geführt. Man gewöhnt sie daran, ihr gefällig zu sein. Man harmonisiert sie. Ich aber habe Glück. Man rechnet nicht mit mir." (p.44)
"It is my good fortune that I've been left in peace thus far. For there are those who have been tempted out. They are promised a reintegration. Recovery too. Work. Success. With these hollow promises on the lips, they are led, step by step, back into society, this great commonality. They are conditioned to become compliant to it. They are harmonised. I, however, am lucky. Noone is counting on me." ***
As long as everyone pretends everything is OK, then everything is OK, and this leads to a distinct (damaging) lack of communication. Tetsu finds himself unable to reveal the truth to his wife, and Hiro hides away from parents and friends, shutting the real reasons for his mental collapse deep inside. The writer shows that in a society which favours repressing emotions there's a need for people to speak up and let their loved ones know what's going on.
Ich nannte ihn Krawatte is written in a fairly sparse style with a predominance of short sentences, a style I'm tempted to call Japano-Deutsch, and the already short story is divided into more than a hundred brief sections, making it easy to pick up and put down (although I raced through it for the most part). Flašar's mother is Japanese, and that will probably help with the book's authenticity and reception; many readers can (quite rightly) be suspicious of western authors attempting to write about Asian culture, but this definitely feels right. The story is also liberally sprinkled with Japanese expressions, explained in a glossary at the end of the book - I wonder if the English version will have quite as many...
...which brings me back to where we started, New Vessel Press' English translation, published as I Called Him Necktie (translated by Sheila Dickie). The title might sound a little clumsy in English, but it's actually quite apt. You see, while English speakers would probably just say 'tie', the Japanese word for this item of clothing is, funnily enough, 'necktie' (or a close approximation, anyway!). The book's out now, and I'd definitely recommend it. It's a great story and a wonderful depiction of how modern life can sometimes leave people behind - and while it is fairly specific to Japan, the truth is that it makes for uncomfortable reading for the rest of us as well. In an increasingly capitalist world, those of us who can't keep up with the pace are just as at risk of being left behind as poor Hiro and Tetsu...
Whether it's Asian boat people sent to Papua New Guinea by a heartless Australian government or phantom Romanians and Bulgarians invading the UK in search of benefit payments, hardly a day goes by without the issue of migrants, illegal or otherwise, causing a stir in the news. However, it appears that none of these destinations are good enough for the people of Moldova - according to writer Vladimir Lorchenkov, they dream of settling in another country entirely...
*****
The Good Life Elsewhere (translated by Ross Ufberg, review copy courtesy of New Vessel Press) is a novel about the trials and tribulations of the inhabitants of the small Moldovan village of Larga, most of whom want nothing more than to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. As the story begins, Serafim Botezato, along with forty-five of his countrymen, believes that he has finally made it to the semi-mythical country of his dreams, Italy. Sadly, on approaching the first 'Italian' they encounter, he realises that the people smugglers have dropped them off a lot closer to home than expected...
Still, one failed illegal migration isn't about to stop our intrepid band of would-be refugees. Serafim and the rest of the villagers start thinking of ways to leave their worthless, debt-ridden lives, and the ideas they come up with are astounding. What do you get if you take an old tractor, a stone and a brush, and a fake antique sword? Three amazing ways to leave Moldova behind, once and for all ;)
The Good Life Elsewhere is a fun, crazy novel which is a joy to read. It's a book which, in its portrayal of a country in decline (and on the move), swings between side-splitting humour, poignant pathos and macabre violence. A sample?
"Mingir, a village in the Hincesti region, was famous throughout Moldova for its residents who habitually trafficked in kidneys."
p.53 (New Vessel Press, 2014)
Now that's a sentence worthy of starting any anecdote... And it's not just the people of Mingir that want out; the list of would-be emigrants stretches across geographical and socio-economic boundaries. Even the President, dreaming of life as an assistant pizza cook, wants to leave Moldova behind for good.
The destination of choice is Italy, the promised land of wine, pasta and low-paid cleaning jobs, and Serafim, who has dreamt of Italy for decades, is one of the most determined of the villagers. In preparation for his trip, he has even learnt Italian from a book, although (unfortunately) his language skills are not all they might be. Still, the problem of actually getting to the promised land remains, and it is in the inventive methods of circumventing the border guards that Lorchenkov excels.
There are three main strands to the book, interspersed with various tales of gallows humour from elsewhere in Moldova. In the first, Serafim and his friend Vasily Lungu try to escape using Lungu's tractor. It may not seem like the most useful of escape vehicles, but the two friends are rather inventive when it comes to making the most of their materials. Meanwhile, the local priest, seeking to catch up with the wife who abandoned him, decides to invade Italy, taking hundreds of thousands of Moldovans with him. A holy crusade with Italy as its destination? Why not?
Perhaps the funniest attempt though is the decision of a local to try to play his way to Italy, deciding that emigration through excellence in sport is the best option:
"Our goal?" asked Nikita Tkach. "What is it brothers?"
"Italy!" answered the villagers, in unison.
"Yes, but first our goal is to master the game of curling," explained Nikita. "This will lead us to Italy. Our goal is to get the disk-like object with the handle across the ice into the finely drawn target! And so - what's our goal?"
"Our goal is to get the disk-like object with the handle across the ice into the finely drawn target!"
"Amen!" bellowed Nikita (p.30)
Even this laudable ambition doesn't quite go without a hitch, however. You see, you really need to be careful when learning the noble art of curling - those stones can be quite heavy...
The novel contains elements of magical realism, stretching the fabric of credibility, but there's a stark truth behind the slapstick humour. Moldova is a poor country where the people are desperate to escape their hopeless lives and make a new start in the west. In fact, 'Italy' (which several people claim doesn't really exist) is merely a state of happiness, not a place, and what the Moldovans are looking for may be something which is unattainable on earth. Still, if only the people could start looking for it in their own backyards, they might just be that little bit happier.
Sadly, those heretics who dispute the glory of the heavenly Italian realm are not suffered gladly. The Good Life Elsewhere contains several brutal stories, with some of the villagers burnt at the stake, or dismembered, simply for making other people uncomfortable. There's just no future in denying the claim that Italy is the paradise Moldovans are waiting for, a disturbing take on the importance of having a dream.
In short, Lorchenkov's novel is a great read. It has a very smooth, readable translation, and the book is very funny and bitingly satirical at times. The writer has come up with an excellent look at life behind the former iron curtain, One Hundred Years of Solitude with more wine and tractors, but beneath the winter sports and holy crusades there is a serious lesson to be learnt. The good life may seem to be elsewhere at times; however, we're more likely to find it if we start by looking a little closer to home...
Today I'm looking at another book from new indie publisher New Vessel Press, a recent addition to the world of translated fiction. Last time, I reviewed some contemporary Argentine literature, but this time we're looking at an Italian classic - a rather controversial one...
*****
Cocaine (translated by Eric Mosbacher, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a reissue of a novel by Pitigrilli, a writer whose work shocked staid authorities in the 1920s. It's the biting, witty tale of Tito Arnaudi, a young man who runs off to seek fame, fortune and fun in Paris (well, where else?).
Tito is in the prime of his life, but averse to following other people's instructions, so he decides to make a living from a mixture of journalistic instincts and sheer cheek. His first article, on the shadowy Parisian world of cocaine, makes him an instant hit and opens doors both professionally and socially. This is his ticket to a world of pleasure, one centred on two lovers - and a lot of the white stuff...
While naughty and witty, Cocaine is not really explicit, but it's unsurprising that the novel was frowned upon by the church in Italy. Sex and drugs and naked dancing may have been a fair reflection of the time, but it's unlikely to have amused the Vatican. It's a fun book though, with jokes everywhere you look
Tito looked at him, puzzled. Then he said: "You've had an unhappy love affair. Has your mistress been deceiving you with her husband?"
p.138 (New Vessel Press, 2013)
And there are plenty more where that came from :)
In the early parts of the novel, the reader is treated to fantastic scenes of the hedonism of the time. Forget Gatsby and his lame soirées - people really knew how to party in Paris. The evening held by Kalantan, one of Tito's lovers, is astonishing in its open description of the way the upper classes spent their free time. Strawberries and chloroform, butterflies flapping about helplessly, asphyxiated by the fumes of the mind-altering chemicals, naked dancing, cocaine aplenty, and guests openly injecting morphine. While the orgiastic scenes that inevitably followed are veiled, it's still a rather powerful image.
It's the second girlfriend, Maud, that Tito really falls for though. Initially a prim and proper Italian girl, she is ruined by the reformatory her parents send her to for her own protection. Having disappeared from Tito's life, she reappears in Paris, a mid-grade celebrity, a high-priced 'girlfriend' and an enticing figure with a handbag-sized dog (eighty-odd years before Paris Hilton copied the style). It's little wonder that our hero decides to pursue her.
Tito, obsessed, follows her across the seas to several continents in the hope of winning her heart. However, Maud is a dancer who can't help feeling wanted; Tito can have her, but not exclusively. In this impossible quest, and the globe-trotting, there are shades of a hedonistic Candide - in this, the best of all possible worlds, everything (even drug abuse) must be for the best...
Of course, a life lived at this pace has consequences, and Pitigrilli makes this abundantly clear, giving us warnings from the very start. When Tito goes looking for cocaine for the first time, he encounters a group of female addicts, twitching and desperate for drugs:
"But the four harpies didn't calm down. Panting, with dilated nostrils and flashing eyes, they clawed at the box of white powder, like shipwrecked persons struggling for a place in the lifeboat." (p.24)
It's a timely warning for our feckless friend...
Tito fails to heed these warnings though, and as his twin obsessions, sex and drugs, blend into one (he even starts calling Maud 'Cocaine'), his downward spiral accelerates:
"Tito's nights were restless. In the evening he took strong doses of chloral to overcome the insomnia produced by the drug he could not give up. The result of the incurable insomnia and the useless drug was a hallucinatory state; he spent long hours in a state of wakefulness in which he felt he was dreaming and in a state of sleep in which he felt he was awake." (p.153)
What goes up (the nose), must come down...
In the end, despite the wit and constant light touch, Cocaine is a sobering account of the dangers of drugs and sexual obsession. Tito is quite obviously doomed to a sad ending, but you suspect that he's quite happy to trade in his twilight years for a brief moment of ecstasy. It all makes for a thoroughly enjoyable story from a forgotten writer :)
*****
Cocaine has an added extra in the form of writer and journalist Alexander Stille's afterword, one which focuses more on the man than the story. It's an intriguing, fifteen-page tale of a man who... well, wasn't very nice. Fascist informer, selfish traitor, Dino Segre (Pitigrilli's real name) was a pretty nasty character all round, albeit a very interesting one. Cocaine is a great read, but I'd definitely leave the real story until after you've finished the novel ;)
It's always good to see more publishers bringing out fiction in translation, and a recent addition to the fold is New Vessel Press. They announced a starting half-dozen from around the world, and first up is a slim book from Argentina - although it's a work which certainly belies its size...
*****
Pedro Mairal's The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra (translated by Nick Caistor, review copy courtesy of the publisher) is a book worthy of being New Vessel's first release. The narrator of the story is not the titular Juan Salvatierra but his younger son, a man who lives in Buenos Aires working as an estate agent. One of the reasons for his move was to escape from his father - or, to be more precise, from the gigantic canvas painting Salvatierra senior spent his life creating.
"I was supposed to be going away to study, but above all I wanted to escape from Barrancales, from home, and most of all from the painting, from the vortex of the painting that I felt was going to swallow me up forever, like an altar boy destined to end up as chaplain in that huge temple of images and endless duties with the canvases, pullies, colors..."
p.80 (New Vessel Press, 2012)
Years after his father's death though, our friend, together with his elder brother, Luis, decides that the unique artwork deserves to be brought out and shown to the world. The brothers return to their hometown (and their deserted home) to find the painting and sell it to an art gallery overseas. It's a unique creation, a tapestry-like picture which flows like a river, and there are sixty rolls piled up, one for each year of the artist's painting life...
...except that there should be sixty-one...
The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra doesn't run to much more than a hundred pages, but it's a beautiful, well-written story. The narrator initially just hopes to settle some outstanding family affairs, but in searching for the missing roll, he finds much more than he bargained for. As well as discovering some interesting, unsettling and surprising facts about his father (and remembering the way the painting defined their relationship), he also starts to find out a little more about himself.
In fact, his search for the missing piece of the painting leads to a complete reevaluation of his life. He decides to shut his office and return to his home town, cycling along old paths and walking by the river, the border between Uruguay and Argentina (which has its own role to play in the story...). In effect, he is revisiting the past, adrift in a town full of strangers, where the train station is abandoned and overgrown, and his father's friends are long gone (or senile).
While his return allows him to see the town once more, it also helps him to learn more about his father, who is quite the enigmatic figure. Juan Salvatierra was left mute by a childhood accident, and this led him indirectly to his artistic destiny. An autodidact, his entire life was spent on one astonishing (lengthy) work. However, when it comes to life outside painting, his son discovers that there was a lot more to his father than he ever realised...
The star of the show though is the painting itself - life captured and reflected on canvas. It gives the son a sense of a blurred reality, and when he comes back to town, he starts to think he's in the painting:
"I looked at all this, asking myself so many questions at once. What was this interlacing of lives, people, animals, days, nights, catastrophes? What did it all mean? What could my father's life have been like? Why did he feel the need to take on such a huge task?" (p.35)
One thing's for sure, Salvatierra truly wanted to create life's rich tapestry. However, it's one which also contains many of the answers to his son's questions...
The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra is a beautiful, understated novella, a story which calmly unfolds in front of the reader's eyes. It consists of short chapters full of elegant prose and measured recounts, but there are also plenty of little pieces of information which only later slot into their rightful place. Nick Caistor's translation is partly responsible for the feel of the story, making the book smooth and a pleasure to read. It would best be read slowly, allowing time for the story to develop at its own pace. Alas, I fear that most readers (like myself) will devour the book in a sitting or two ;)
One book it reminded me of a little, both in its measured pace and its subject matter, is one of Peirene Press' class of 2013, Richard Weihe's Sea of Ink. Both use the literary form to describe an artist and his art and both use short, concise chapters to great effect. And, like Juan Salvatierra, Bada Shanren was a man of few words (in his case, by choice though!).
What Mairal has produced with this book is a painting like a story, in a story like a painting, and I'm very glad to have had the opportunity to see read it :) It's a book I can heartily recommend, and one which I hope to reread at some point. As I said at the start of the post, it's good to have new players in the translated fiction game - especially when they can produce books like this one. More please :)
