Danilo Kiš - The Attic

At first he agreed to the translation, but then he grew concerned.

“It’s difficult,” he said.

“But still, Tam-Tam, let’s give it a try.”

After some convincing, Tam-Tam started singing, sitting right on the shore of the bay, in the shade of the palm trees:

I brought her shells and pearls from Senegal

(My liver is bleeding from all the diving)

I brought her coral from Kokovok

(I broke my fingers while digging)

I tore the teeth from the mouth of a shark

(This grappling left me covered in scars)

And I braided all of it into her hair

Once I didn’t turn up for ages after a hunt

(Leviathan dragged my boat far out to sea

and it’s a shame about the harpoon)

and like a woman I returned, overwhelmed,

with nobody there to welcome me on the beach

But in the hut I found my dearest,

Who had shorn half her hair

And combed out the pearls and coral.

And I thought: she’s mourning for me

But in the hut I found Ngao-Ngaa,

Picked the lice from her hair like Thaki the ape,

Gathered pearls and coral like a parrot,

And then I wanted to eat Ngao-Ngaa

But that would not make her hair grow

Afterward I set out over the sea

that I might seek my Leviathan,

that I might tear my harpoon from his back

and drive it into my own heart,

because my beloved had shorn her hair

and scattered her diadem of pearls

and coral

All of this because of Ngao-Ngaa

That afternoon I showed him my polished translation of the song.

He shook his head:

“You did not hear this song from me.”

“But I did, Tam-Tam,” I said. “You sang it for me this morning in the palm grove.”

“No,” he replied. “I sang you the song about jealousy that starts with:

Aagn oagn gobz evs—

and you got it all distorted. We call that ailongam .”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“ Ailongam ,” he said.

“Translate it for me.”

“It cannot be translated.”

“What do you mean it can’t?”

“That’s one of the twelve thousand words in my language that one cannot translate. Ninety percent of the words in your song are also untranslatable.”

“Impossible,” I said.

“Then translate it yourself!” he said, in a tone that was almost uncivil.

“Magnolia!” I said.

He just grinned, as if he wanted to let me know that he was no longer angry.

Or perhaps it was because the orange-colored moon had come into view and poured out its resonant silver over the entire Grove of Magnolias where we were strolling, lost in thought.

You will say to me, Billy Wiseass (to hell with you!), that there is too little here concerning the things I really want to talk about.

It might seem that way to you, Mr. Know-it-all!

But she is ubiquitous, like the moonlight in the Grove of Magnolias, like my writing, my breathing, and the sonorous “oh” that she utters from time to time in the pages of this book. That sound is the presence of her shadow. It is her sigh, and it accompanies me.

Or is it perhaps my own sigh, O all-knowing one?

You will be wondering, Capricorn, who the hell I’m looking for in this exotic land of adventure and turmoil.

I am certain you’re wondering about this — provided that you haven’t changed.

You are well aware, my dear old friend, that I cannot live without our good old attic, without my lute, without Eurydice.

There you have it: I fled from myself and am now putting my love to the test.

But I know that I am going to return a light-year older (I didn’t say “wiser”), and I know that I will once more put my arms around my lute and my love, Eurydice.

Igor, I wanted to describe Eurydice, to compose a poem worthy of her name. You were the first to tell me, Capricorn, that I should drop the joking and stop chasing rainbows.

Do you remember that conversation of ours in the attic?

I said: “Fine. I will take your advice. I’ll move down to the ground floor and write a novel about Marija the Prostitute. About her lovers and her abortions.”

You: “All right. Do that. I’ll be sorry to see you leave our attic, but do it — for the sake of the poem!”

Me: “It’s not a poem. It’s not going to become a poem.”

You: “A poem about a whore named Mary Magdalene.”

Me: “No. A story about the abortions of a certain Marija, known as ‘the chaste.’ A novel about the socio-historical, material, (a)moral, ethnic, and ethical causes of her ruin. A novel about Marija’s aspirations. A novel of the city.”

You: “You’re making fun of me.”

Me: “God forbid!”

You: “You know very well that I wasn’t thinking of a fable but rather of ambiance. Are you with me? An atmosphere nourished on debauchery and hope. That’s what I was thinking of.”

Me: “But how do you envisage this atmosphere nourished on debauchery and hope ? Won’t that turn out to be a fable? But I want to write a book, Igor, a book! Without Marija’s maxipads and without her lovers, without dialectics and ethics. Even without Eurydice.”

And in conclusion, Capricorn, haven’t I told you a hundred times that I am writing in order to emancipate myself from my egoism?

In late autumn I returned to the attic. I climbed the stairs excitedly, lugging my heavy backpack loaded with shells and the seeds of exotic plants. I had brought a gift for everyone: for Eurydice a necklace of dolphin teeth and a conch named Mandragora, for Igor a shrunken head from Equatorial Africa, and for the old cleaning lady a seven-colored reed mat.

“This is for you, Madame Witch,” I said. “It can be used as a doormat.”

“Where did you swipe this from?” she asked darkly.

She looked closely at the iridescent rainbow in the folds of the mat.

“I got it from an aborigine. His name was Tam-Tam. In return, I had sex with his wife.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said.

“Alas,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.

“But where is the Billy Goat?” I asked. “Surely he hasn’t yet learned to walk quietly in the corridor and wipe his feet at the door?”

“I’m sorry, who?” she asked, blinking.

“Igor,” I said. “From the attic. Billy Wiseass.”

“Oh, him. You know, he moved down to the second floor. He’s working now. He says he’s writing a novel. ‘So why are all these women coming to see you?’ I ask him. ‘Those are my models,’ he says.”

“Well, how do you like that!” I said. “ I’m going to have him thrown out .”

“Watch your step or I’ll have you thrown out, dearie!” the cleaning lady snapped.

“I just meant,” I said in appeasement, “that I would have to ban him from my place up there. What the hell am I supposed to do with that confabulator?”

“Don’t call him that! He has talent.”

“How do you know?” I said.

The blush of a teenage girl spread across her pockmarked face.

“Well, you know, I’m also, um, like. . a model,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“A model?!”

“Yes,” she said. “In that thing that Mr. Igor is writing, I will be a — a cleaning lady.”

“But you are one already!”

“Yes, but Mr. Igor says that in his novel I will be the prototype of all cleaning ladies. Me as myself, plus all the rest.”