• Ognjen Spahic in translation: Carver is Dead

Ognjen Spahic in translation: Carver is Dead

CARVER IS DEAD

They were drinking juice. Watching TV. The old set could only pick up two channels. She was expecting to give birth by the end of the week. He was an accountant at a sock and underwear factory.
  "Perhaps I'll go round to Vladimir's," he said.
  His wife was leafing through the newspaper and did not raise her head.
  "Perhaps?" she said a minute later.

   It had been raining for three days without letup. He had read that very painful births were seventeen percent more common in humid weather. Medically unproven but true. He believed in statistics. And hoped the statistics would bypass them this time.
  "The phone number's on the fridge. If anything happens—just call."
  "Do you have to tonight?"
  "How do you mean—have to?"
  "Do you have to go out?"
  "You know where I'm going. What's the problem?" he said as he put on his coat.
  He had no idea where to go. The only thing for sure was that he usually ended up at Vladimir's. He lived alone and went to bed late.
 
  She supported her back with her hand as she walked. She went with him to the door so she could lock it afterwards. Her full belly looked healthy. At the hospital they said hers was a "textbook pregnancy".

  She believed the doctors and liked the "bookish" comparison. She straightened the collar of his coat and said:
  "Bring me a book. Let Vladimir choose. I want to read something exciting. OK?"
  "Of course," he said, checking the umbrella. 

  She kissed him on the cheek and locked the door twice.

   The stairs stank of urine. The rain would not stop that week, he thought, and looked up—the sky was the color of a dead TV screen.

  He would stroll along some neighboring streets and then take the boulevard to Vladimir's. He would not have to avoid the puddles. He had good, watertight American boots. His socks would stay dry. The socks made by his firm bled dye when they were wet. You had to keep them dry.

When he went round the corner he thought of the baby and tried to imagine how it would look. But he could only picture pale skin and helpless arms waving. An unborn child—a nameless being, he thought as he entered the drugstore. He would buy a bottle of whiskey for Vladimir and try to stay sober tonight.
  "Twenty, please."
   He searched through his wallet—he only had fifteen.
  "I'll put the whiskey back then," he said.
  "You'll have to," the cashier said, punching the buttons of the cash-register.
 
  If the baby came on Thursday, that would be on their wedding anniversary. Double luck, he thought as he left the shop. But he still didn't feel real joy. That was probably normal the first time. He thought everything would change when he saw the baby, when he held it in his arms and called it by its name. He looked to the left and then to the right, down the street.

There were no crowds downtown that day. So much water, he thought, it had to run off somewhere. He skirted the largest puddles and chose the sidewalks under the eaves. The wind snapped two ribs of the umbrella, opening it became impractical. He would have coffee in the bar on the other side and wait for the weather to calm a bit.
  "Your face, sir," the waiter said, pointing to his own face.
  "What's wrong with my face?" he said, perplexed.
  "There's blood on your face."
  He touched his nose and looked in embarrassment at the blood on his fingers. Now it made sense—the metallic taste in his mouth in the last few minutes.
  "It's my blood pressure," he said and pulled out his handkerchief. "It starts bleeding just like that," he said.
  They brought him napkins. Lots of napkins.
  In the bathroom only one light bulb was working. As he washed himself with cold water a man and a woman were arguing. They paid him no attention.
  "You could at least have asked. I was the father."
  "You swine."
  "That's murder!"
  "It's my business."
  "Is that so?"
  "It sure is."
  He turned off the tap and wiped his hands with the last napkin.
  "You think our child is just your business!"
  "Yep, it was inside me, and it ain't no more. Simple enough?"
   Instead of answering, the man slapped her hard in the face. As he was headed back to the table he heard it again.

   He finished his coffee and waited for the two to come out. Maybe he should have done something. He was sure he would never hit his wife. He loved his wife and knew it would destroy him.

  It began to thunder. Every explosion made the image on the TV screen above the bar disappear. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman were blanketed in electronic snow. The waiters swore.

  First the man came out, several minutes later the woman. She was busily leafing through a smallish bundle of bank notes. Large dark glasses covered her face. He saw them once again the same evening, arm in arm under an umbrella and staring into a store window full of TVs. The central screen focussed their faces that were drawn into smiles. Before continuing off down the street the woman adjusted her hair; he waved at the camera and they walked off again in silence.
 
 
  Vladimir's apartment was on the fifth floor, just round the corner. Vladimir was a writer. He was forty-three and wore his age like an old man. He was divorced and had a daughter. Little Ines lived in another town with her mother and came to visit once a month.
  He knocked, and behind the door he heard a "Coming!" and then an amiable "Hi bud! Roll on in."
  They shook hands and patted each other on the back. Vladimir took him by the arm and led him into the dining room.
  "Sit down. I'll be with you right away," he said.

  He sat down and looked at the books scattered over the table. Piles of books. Instinctively he wanted to turn on the television, but his friend had voluntarily relinquished having a TV.
 "I'm much better known as 'the man without a TV' than I am as a writer. Shocking, isn't it?" he sometimes said.
  Vladimir rummaged in the kitchen, there came the clink of glasses.
  "A sad night, old pal," he came back with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
  "The greatest among us is no more. The great text tamer. The prince of the short story. The baron of metonymy..."
  "Cut the baloney. Who are you talking about?"
  "You really don't know?"
  He poured the whiskey and pronounced solemnly:
  "Raymond is no longer with us—Carver is dead."
  "Oh, so I don't forget: Your beautiful wife called," he added.
  "What?! Are you crazy? Why didn't you tell me right away? Give me the phone. She's pregnant, you know!"
  Six.
  Two.
  One.
  He thought of the little yellow cot in the corner with the designer bedcover they spent ages choosing.
  Five.
  Eight.
  Four.
  "Come on, come on, come on, for God's sake!" he stamped his foot impatiently. The phone rang seven times. He thought he was going to be late for the birth. That she was in hospital already or perhaps in the apartment, on the floor, unconscious.
But then her voice came, a sleepy "Hello?"
  "Is it you?" he yelled.
  "Sure it's me. What's up?"
  "You're OK. And the baby? Everything OK?"
  "Everything's OK. Why?"
  "Say that again, please."
  "Everything's OK, I said. What's wrong?"
  He put his hand over the receiver. Vladimir stood leaning against the doorpost with his glass of whiskey and wide inquisitive eyes.
  "Everything's OK. False alarm," he said with relief and put the receiver to his ear again. She asked why he had got so worked up, she didn't understand. She had called to ask Vladimir about the book. He said he'd send "a good, dead American writer."
  "He died today, didn't he?" he asked.
  "Yes, he did."
  She said it was interesting to read when you know that the person—the writer far away in America—is still lying in an open coffin.
  "And a wave of sadness, strange and strong, rolls in from across the ocean."
  "You weren't there when I called," she said.
  "No. I stopped for a coffee on the way."
  "Did you get wet?" 
  "A bit."
  "Ha! I can feel the baby moving. It tickles."
  "That's normal. It'll be coming soon."
  "Please don't come back too late. I want the book. And you're not bad to have round the place either!" she said cheerfully.
  "I'll be straight back," he said and reached for his glass of whiskey.
 
Carver was in his pocket. Before he left he had one more glass with Vladimir and drank to his health. There was an American way of life, and there was also an American way of death, he thought. It wasn't good that the summer had begun with such unpleasant weather. Warm, boring rain. She couldn't go outside, that dampened the mood a bit. So far they hadn't had any serious arguments. He thought the two of them would have a harmonious, easy-going marriage. A little more money would remove all misunderstandings. But it was good like this too, he thought, as he looked from the street at the window of their rented apartment. They hadn't bought curtains yet. All of a sudden he felt sorry that he had left her alone. He wouldn't do it again. At least not at night. She had to be relaxed and feel secure. He couldn't give her Carver tonight for that reason. Carver's stories were unsettling. They radiated a particular kind of anxiety. They were too much like real life, he thought.
 
She unlocked the door, put her arms around his waist and hugged him. As she kissed him on the cheek he felt her belly against his stomach. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling. And her face was moist. As if from tears.

  Usually she watched television before going to bed. She turned off the lights and lay down on the couch. The freshly whitewashed living room was bathed in the flashes from the TV screen. Hues of red and green danced on the objects, on her face. The bright reflections of the film explosions glistened in her eyes. The cool inexorability of the cathode tube.
  "Did you bring the book?" she asked.
  "Sorry, I forgot it. Your call threw me," he said and went into the kitchen.
  "I felt it in your coat pocket. Why the lie?"
  "Listen, I don't want you to read Carver tonight."
  She went into the hall and got the book.
  "It's cold and wet around the edges," she said.
  "I'm afraid it's like that inside as well. Cold and wet," he said.
  She sat down and began turning the pages.
  "Please, leave it on the table."
  As if she didn't hear him, she began to read the first lines.
  "Leave the book, for goodness sake. You don't need that agitation, neither you nor the baby," he said, getting loud this time.

  He thought Carver's stories would have a negative influence. But he wasn't sure how. There was a brilliant vagueness and a queasiness to them that he couldn't grasp. He sat down next to her, but she turned away.
  "I'm going to the bedroom. I'll read there. Good night," she said and quickly got up.
  He also got up.

  In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand. With the other he gripped the book. She felt Carver going from her.
  "No!" she screamed just as her hands came loose.
 
  Today she would read. She would have this damn book.
 
  She caught one of the covers and a dozen pages and leaned back.
 
  But he would not let go. He felt the book slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.

  In this manner, the issue was decided.

Ο ΚΑΡΒΕΡ ΕΙΝΑΙ ΝΕΚΡΟΣ

Μετάφραση: Σ. Αργυρός

Έπιναν φρουτοχυμό κοιτώντας τηλεόραση. Η γερασμένη συσκευή έπιανε μόνο δυο κανάλια.  Εκείνη περίμενε ότι θα γεννήσει μέχρι το τέλος της εβδομάδας. Εκείνος ήταν λογιστής σε εργοστάσιο εσωρούχων.

“Μάλλον θα περάσω από του Βλαντιμίρ”, είπε εκείνος.

Εκείνη ξεφύλλιζε την εφημερίδα και δεν σήκωσε το κεφάλι.

“Τι θα πει ίσως;” ρώτησε μετά από ένα λεπτό.

Έβρεχε διαρκώς για τρεις μέρες. Διάβασε ότι οι επώδυνοι τοκετοί ήταν κατά 17% πιο πιθανοί τις υγρές ημέρες. Ιατρικά αναπόδειχτο αλλά στατιστικά αληθινό. Έλπισε ότι η στατιστική αυτή τη φορά θα την προσπεράσει.

“Ο αριθμός είναι στο ψυγείο, αν συμβεί κάτι τηλεφώνησε” της είπε ήρεμα.

“Είναι απαραίτητο και σήμερα;”

“Τι εννοείς απαραίτητο;”

“Είναι απαραίτητο να βγεις και σήμερα;”

“Ξέρεις που πηγαίνω, που είναι το πρόβλημα;”

Στην πραγματικότητα δεν είχε ιδέα πού να πάει.

Το μόνο σίγουρο ήταν ότι συνήθως κατέληγε στου Βλαντιμίρ.

Τον συνόδευσε ως την πόρτα για να κλειδώσει. Περπατούσε κρατώντας τη μέση της με τα χέρια. Η φουσκωμένη κοιλιά της φαινόταν υγιής. Στο νοσοκομείο είπαν ότι είχε τέλεια εγκυμοσύνη. Πίστευε στους γιατρούς.

Τον βοήθησε να ισιώσει τον γιακά του και είπε:

“Φέρε μου ένα βιβλίο. Ας διαλέξει ο Βλαντιμίρ. Θέλω να διαβάσω κάτι συναρπαστικό απόψε, ΟΚ;”

“Εντάξει” απάντησε διπλώνοντας την ομπρέλα του.

Τον φίλησε και διπλοκλείδωσε την πόρτα.

Θα έκανε μια βόλτα στη γειτονιά και μετά θα περνούσε από του Βλαντιμίρ. Δεν νοιαζόταν για τις λακκούβες. Φορούσε καλές αδιάβροχες αμερικάνικες μπότες. Οι κάλτσες από το εργοστάσιο ξέβαφαν όταν βρέχονταν, έπρεπε να μένουν οπωσδήποτε στεγνές.

Στρίβοντας τη γωνία προσπάθησε να σκεφτεί πώς θα μοιάζει το μωρό. Το μόνο που έφερε στο νου του ήταν χλωμό δέρμα και χέρια που κινούνται άτσαλα. Ένα αγέννητο μωρό, ένα ανώνυμο πλάσμα, σκεφτόταν καθώς μπήκε στην κάβα. Ένα μπουκάλι ουίσκυ για τον Βλαντιμίρ.

“Είκοσι παρακαλώ”

Έψαξε το πορτοφόλι του – είχε μόνο δεκαπέντε.

“Θα το βάλω πίσω στη θέση του” είπε παίρνοντας πίσω το μπουκάλι.

“Δυστυχώς” είπε η ταμίας.

Αν το μωρό ερχόταν την Πέμπτη θα ήταν και η επέτειος του γάμου τους. Δεν ένιωσε διπλή χαρά. Ίσως να ήταν λογικό για το πρώτο παιδί. Σκέφτηκε ότι όλα θα άλλαζαν όταν θα έπαιρνε το μωρό στα χέρια του. Κοίταξε δεξιά - αριστερά  πριν διασχίσει το δρόμο.

Το κέντρο ήταν άδειο. Περπατούσε στο χείλος του στο πεζοδρομίου. Ο αέρας γύρισε την ομπρέλα του. Αποφάσισε να πιει έναν καφέ περιμένοντας τη βροχή να περάσει.

“Το πρόσωπό σας” είπε ο σερβιτόρος.

“Τι έχει;” ρώτησε.

“Έχετε αίμα στο πρόσωπο”.

Έφερε τα δάκτυλα στη μύτη και τα είδε ματωμένα.

“Είναι η πίεσή μου” είπε βγάζοντας ένα μαντήλι.

Του έφεραν κάμποσες χαρτοπετσέτες.

Στην τουαλέτα ένα ζευγάρι διαπληκτιζόταν.

“Θα μπορούσες τουλάχιστον να με ρωτήσεις. Ήμουν ο πατέρας”.

“Γουρούνι”.

“Είναι φόνος”.

“Δικιά μου δουλειά”.

“Αλήθεια;”

“Ναι”.

Έκλεισε τη βρύση και σκούπισε το πρόσωπό του.

“Νομίζεις ότι είναι μόνο δική σου δουλειά;”

“Ναι. Πάει και τέλειωσε”.

Ο άντρας απάντησε με ένα χαστούκι.

Βγαίνοντας από την τουαλέτα άκουσε και ένα δεύτερο.

Ήπιε τον καφέ του και περίμενε. Ίσως θα έπρεπε να κάνει κάτι. Εκείνος δεν θα χτυπούσε ποτέ μια γυναίκα. Άρχισαν απανωτές βροντές. Με κάθε μπουμπουνητό, η Ινγκριντ Μπεργκμάν και ο Χάμφρεϊ Μπόγκαρντ καλύπτονταν από ηλεκτροστατικό χιόνι στην οθόνη της τηλεόρασης.

Το διαμέρισμα του Βλαντιμίρ ήταν στον πέμπτο όροφο. Ήταν συγγραφέας. Σαράντα τριών, αλλά έμοιαζε μεγαλύτερος. Διαζευγμένος. Με μια κόρη. Η Ινές έμενε με τη μητέρα της σε άλλη πόλη και τον επισκέπτονταν μια φορά το μήνα.

Έδωσαν τα χέρα και χτυπήθηκαν φιλικά στην πλάτη.

“Κάτσε έρχομαι αμέσως” είπε ο Βλαντιμίρ.

Κοίταξε τα σκορπισμένα βιβλία.

Ο Βλαντιμίρ κάτι ανακάτευε στην κουζίνα.

“Άσχημη νύχτα” είπε, φέρνοντας δυο ποτήρια και ένα μπουκάλι ουίσκυ.

“Ο μεγάλος δεν είναι πλέον μαζί μας. Έφυγε σήμερα”.

“Κόψε την πλάκα, τι είναι αυτά που λες;”

“Δεν το ξέρεις;”

Έβαλε ουίσκυ και στους δυο τους.

“Ο Ρέημοντ έφυγε. Ο Κάρβερ είναι νεκρός. Α, τηλεφώνησε και η γυναίκα σου”.

“Μα καλά τρελός είσαι; Γιατί δεν μου το είπες αμέσως; Γεννάει το ξέρεις;”

1

2

Για μια στιγμή κοίταξε φευγαλέα το βιβλίο του Κάρβερ στο τραπέζι.

1

5

8

4

Το τηλέφωνο χτύπησε οκτώ φορές.

“Ναι;”

“Έλα” είπε ανυπόμονα.

“Τι συμβαίνει;”

“Είναι όλα ΟΚ; Είσαι καλά;”

“Δεν σ’ ακούω καλά”

Έβαλε το χέρι του σαν χωνί γύρω από το ακουστικό.

“Όλα εντάξει;”

“Τηλεφώνησα για να μην ξεχάσεις να μου φέρεις το βιβλίο”.

“Καλά, θα σου φέρω έναν καλό νεκρό αμερικάνο συγγραφέα”.

“Αυτόν που πέθανε σήμερα;”

“Ναι”.

“Δεν ήσουν εκεί όταν πήρα”.

“Ναι, σταμάτησα για έναν καφέ στο δρόμο”.

“Βράχηκες;”

“Λίγο”.

“Μην αργήσεις. Θέλω το βιβλίο”.

“Καλά” απάντησε και έπιασε το ποτήρι με το ουίσκυ.

Όλα μεταξύ τους πήγαιναν καλά.

Πριν φύγει ήπιαν ένα ακόμη ποτήρι με τον Βλαντιμίρ. Είχε τον Κάρβερ στην τσέπη.  Δεν μπορούσε να της τον δώσει σήμερα. Οι ιστορίες του Κάρβερ είχαν όλες κάτι ανησυχητικό. Έδιναν μια αίσθηση αγωνίας. Έμοιαζαν πολύ με την πραγματική ζωή.

Του άνοιξε την πόρτα και τον αγκάλιασε. Καθώς φιλήθηκαν ένιωσε την κοιλιά της στο στομάχι του. Δεν ήταν σίγουρος ότι του άρεσε αυτή η αίσθηση.

Συνήθως χάζευε στην τηλεόραση προτού την πάρει ο ύπνος. Έσβησε τα φώτα και ξάπλωσε στον καναπέ.

“Έφερες το βιβλίο;” τον ρώτησε.

“Συγγνώμη, το ξέχασα” είπε φευγαλέα και πήγε στην κουζίνα.

“Αφού το κατάλαβα στην τσέπη σου, γιατί λες ψέματα;”

“Είναι μόνο που δεν θέλω να διαβάσεις Κάρβερ απόψε”.

Ξεφύλλισε το βιβλίο.

“Είναι παγωμένο και οι άκρες βράχηκαν” του είπε.

“Νομίζω ότι έτσι είναι και το περιεχόμενο, παγερό. Σε παρακαλώ άστο για σήμερα”.

Άρχισε να διαβάζει τις πρώτες αράδες προσποιούμενη ότι δεν τον άκουσε.

“Σε παρακαλώ άστο για σήμερα” επανέλαβε.

Πίστευε ότι οι ιστορίες του Κάρβερ θα είχαν άσχημη επίδραση επάνω της, αλλά δεν ήξερε πώς να το εξηγήσει. Είχαν μια ασάφεια και κάτι περίεργο που δεν μπορούσε να εντοπίσει.

“Πάω στο υπνοδωμάτιο να διαβάσω”.

Την ακολούθησε.

Της πήρε το βιβλίο από τα χέρια με μια απότομη κίνηση.

“Όχι” του φώναξε τσιρίζοντας.

Αυτό το βράδυ ήθελε να διαβάσει.

Άρπαξε το εξώφυλλο και καμιά τριανταριά σελίδες.

Τράβηξαν και οι δυο επίμονα.

Με αυτό τον τρόπο, το ζήτημα επιλύθηκε οριστικά.

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