Ivan Vladislavic - 101 Detectives

In 2010, while scouting for one of his Thresholder photos in downtown Johannesburg, Lister was attacked and robbed of his camera. The thugs strangled him and left him lying unconscious in the street with his pockets turned inside out. In an account of the incident, he writes: ‘I remember fading to black; and I remember coming round again, sprawled under a blue sky, amazed to be alive. I am troubled by the derangement of consciousness I experienced in these moments: random images flickered through my mind like slides falling through a broken carousel or letters through a slot. People say your past flashes before your eyes at the point of death and perhaps this is what they mean, except that I was not dying but coming back to life. The light was blinding.’

A few months later, Lister began opening the dead letters. Reading these messages from the past and taking them back to the people who wrote them has become his admittedly quixotic mission. He has made several journeys in search of the far-flung return addresses on the letters. The people who posted them, thirty years ago and more, are long gone, but the journeys are a distraction and photographing the places is consoling. Transcriptions of five of the dead letters are presented here. The original letters and Lister’s photographs of locations associated with them were exhibited in Kraków in 2011 (see ‘Dead Letter Gallery’).

Fixing a chaotic moment is Lister’s ‘speciality’ as a photographer. He is known to his colleagues as ‘Mr Frosty’. In April 2009, he explained this nickname to a journalist: ‘The joke is that I’m known in the industry as the frozen-moment guy. You know, the moment when things teeter, when they hover and vibrate, just before the fall. Capturing it in the real world is no longer a job for a photographer. Anyone can freeze an instant digitally and tinker with it and thaw it out again… When it comes to these things, I’m like some old geezer who insists on writing with a pencil. I’m no Luddite, I appreciate the technology; it’s just not for me. I still want to stage it all, to set up something foolishly complicated and get it on film, hoping for a small, unlikely miracle.’

Letter 1

L. S. to Maryvonne, 1978, Paris (tr. from French)

17, rue Boulard, 75014 PARISSeptember, 1978

My dear Maryvonne,

I worry about you! The news reaching us from S. Africa is not good. On Sunday when I came back from Jean-Richard in Auxerre I saw the most terrible thing on television. I was so upset I phoned J-R at once, although we had only just been together. To see a man doused with gasoline and burnt alive, and no one lifting a finger to prevent it, and all for being black. Or is it some other reason? You must write again and tell us what is happening, especially with you. J-R and everyone else in Auxerre are worried sick.

Your last letter troubled me. What is the meaning of this fancy dress? I understand, I think, that you must go to dangerous places because of your work. I am the first to say that the research is important. But that you should go about in disguise, dressed as a man, as a black man, seems strange to me. Surely a minstrel costume is more likely to get you into trouble than to protect you? Who are you hiding from? And who are the comrades you mention? I believe that Orlando is in Soweto. I told J-R it makes me think of Orlando Furioso and he said he doubted very much they had heard of Ariosto where you are.

You always tell me not to sound like a professor, but that’s who I am. And to me you will always be a student, even after your habilitation, please God! In any event, sounding like a professor is one of the few benefits of the job, so here goes. Picturing you with your face painted black (is this really what you do? — it seems so strange) I was reminded of the episode in Homer where Ulysses creeps into Troy disguised as a slave. Helen tells the story to Telemachus, who is looking for news of his father. Does it come back to you? No half measures for Ulysses: he beats himself black and blue, he takes the lash to his own back until the blood seeps through his filthy rags, he pounds bruises into his cheeks. Then he skulks through the streets of the enemy city. The disguise is a good one. Apart from Helen, who says nothing, not a soul recognises him.

It’s a remarkable story, not so? But that’s enough of the Ancients. When I hear from you, I will write again to say what I mean by it. Please be careful. Perhaps you should think about coming back to Paris for the summer. Maude says you can stay with her. You will always have a home here.

Your affectionate teacher and worried friend,

[Signed] L. S.

Letter 2

M. Benadie to Basil, 1979, Laingsburg (tr. from Afrikaans)

Oct 1979

Dear Basil,

How is life in the Golden City? I have phoned repeatedly, but no one answers.

Last Thursday an alarming thing happened. You remember I said I would dig a fishpond in the backyard as soon as I moved in? Well, I finally started. A whole year has flown past because I am always busy in the shop. I had just started when Mrs Greyling from next door came and said I shouldn’t just dig holes like that. I said why, and she said well, certain things that cannot be named are buried in that yard and should rather be left undisturbed.

I thought she was pulling my leg but she said no, it was serious, and she showed me the map you drew when you went to PE on holiday and she had to look after your (i.e. my) house. She said every X was a nameless thing that had to be pointed out if anything unpleasant ever happened to you, like an accident or a drowning, and she was left behind to take care of everything.

Now there is a rockery that does not appear on your map. There is hardly room for a fishpond or a septic tank, which will also have to be rebuilt one of these fine days, another thing you should actually have drawn to my attention before I bought the house. In any case, please confirm that it is safe to dig here at the back or phone me rather (your old number) in the evening, because in this day and age it’s better to write nothing down.

Please write back soon.

Yours sincerely,

M. Benadie

Letter 3

Karl-Heinz to Norman, 1977, Göttingen (orig. in English)

Geiststrasse 7A

3400 Göttingen

Wed., April 13th ’77

Dear Norman,

Greetings from Göttingen! I hope this finds you well. I myself have settled in nicely here and am going on well with my work. As you can imagine, there are scholars galore to pore over Kant & Co., but very few with an interest in Netterberg. Indeed, my passion in this direction may be sui generis. It is all to the good: I am left to my own devices and getting ahead by dint of sheer provincialism.

Some weeks ago at the Bahnhof, which is a splendid place dating from the heyday of the Railways, I saw something that would have amused you. An old man, a shabby fellow with a brown cordroy hat like a mushroom squashed down on his head, was causing a rumpus on the concourse where the schedules are displayed. He was wandering among the commuters, almost as though he were sedated, I would say, and declaring to no-one in particular, but very distinctly, in well-accented English — ‘I am the Brain Man of the World!’

I am writing on a different matter though. Please don’t think me presumptuous, but when this question arose I immediately thought of consulting you. There is a story attached. My friend Adelheit recently took lodgings with a colleague from the University library. Arrangements of this kind are common here where space is at a premium. When she was cleaning the little refrigerator in her room, she came across a spool of film in the crisper. Apparently it is common practice to put film in the fridge to keep it ‘fresh’. Her colleague surmises that it was left behind by the previous occupant of the room, a young Argentine who departed suddenly last Autumn after some sort of scandal (she will only say ‘under a cloud’).