Monthly Archives: December 2011

Notes from My Journal: the Chicago-Indianapolis Book Tour (Part 3: Afterthoughts and Draft of a Translation)

Sunday, November 20

Passionate NomadsAmong the dozen or so who attended the book event at Chicago was a handsome young man who had been smiling up at me from the audience and who introduced himself as Álvaro Villagrán, son of Martín Villagrán who is a co-member of the Mansilla Club and presented at the Córdoba conference in July 2005. We had a delightful conversation; he’s studying nearby at Northwestern University where [my brother] Kirk took his bachelor’s degree. Alas, when we left for Indianapolis we realized Anita had not gotten a picture of him, nor a close shot of me with Jay and his son. But we did better in Indy. Anyway, Álvaro brought news of his father, who after heart surgery since our previous acquaintance has just completed his doctorate in history and is pursuing his bliss rather than scrounging for a living. History had already been his hobby, and one which he took seriously, as was evident from his contribution at the Mansillan conference.

Four literary friends

Brett; María Gabriela Mizraje, author and teacher; Eva Gillies, translator of Lucio V. Mansilla; and Martín Villagrán, fellow presenter at Mansillan conference – in a restaurant in Córdoba, Argentina, July 2005

***

Another Chicago note, aside from the excellent facility at the Instituto Cervantes: there were two members present from the Argentine Consulate [co-sponsor of the event], and I am told that everyone – absolutely everyone – at the consulate had read and were enraptured by the translation. None of them had read it in Spanish and are all now looking forward to doing so. The Head Consul herself, a pleasantly plump and bubbly woman whose portly husband was there beside her as we chatted over empanadas and wine, was particularly extravagant in her praise. I feel deeply touched by that warm reception of my work. My meager fame spreads, though more importantly (and significantly) does my critical reputation – though the members of the consulate are neither literary critics nor translation experts. Still, they are professional people of some importance, and their judgment matters to me.

Wine and Empanadas at Instituto Cervantes, Chicago

Wine and Empanadas at Instituto Cervantes, Chicago

***

Not sure if I mentioned this above in passing, but it merits its own note: Anita became so comfortable with the whole group we hung out with, María Rosa and all the rest with their native warmth and generosity, she now wants me to take her to Argentina. The social barrier broken, the linguistic barrier does not loom so heavy. In a moment of extreme exhuberence in the car yesterday as José Luis was driving us all around, Anita sang snippets of songs I had taught her, like “Adiós, muchachos,” “Cielito lindo,” and “De colores” (to the point where she loses the tango, anyway), and as an encore the first Spanish verse of “Silent Night.” The latter earned her a fervent round of applause. When María Rosa and I said our final good-byes, to my thanking her for putting Anita so much at ease, she exclaimed joyously that how could they not take a liking to her, she was so much fun, that her vibrancy must be a perfect foil to my melancholy – earlier she had commented that for that combination of qualities we were a perfect match – though of course life preys on us both in the long and short of our time.

Brett and Anita at home in Tell City

Brett and Anita at home in Tell City

* * *

Table Talk at Indianapolis Bar

Table Talk: José Luis, Rosa, María Cristina, Paola, Anita, María Rosa, Brett

Around the table Friday night, echoing my statement earlier in my presentation of Eva Gillies’s telling me that María Rosa might have need of me to translate that very novel whose first English edition we are now celebrating, it was perhaps she who commented to María Cristina Botelho that she might be needing me to translate her work. Later we were discussing the problem of my father’s open rejection, at my mother’s [September] funeral, of my gay daughter and her wife. And suddenly Paola was handing me a copy of her mom’s book of stories La última estación (The Last Station, or Season), showing me a copy of this short-short on a gay male union.

Here is the Spanish text in its entirety:

 

De mi diario

 Mis amigos Luis y Felipe se aman intensamente. Ayer se casaron. Asistí a la boda. Lucieron ropa diseñada por los mejores modistos de la farándula. Siempre soñaron que su unión celebraría con tortas, damas y padrinos. El notario, un gordo calvo y risueño, selló su unión para toda la vida.

La fiesta duró hasta la media noche. Bailamos. Echamos confetis y arroz. Ellos a estas horas deben estar disfrutando su luna de miel en Venecia. Ambos son excelentes profesionales. Ahorraron para cuando llegara el día más importante para ellos.

 

And here the draft of a translation, made up before family all showed up to celebrate my birthday one day early:

 

From My Diary

My friends Luis and Felipe love each other intensely. Yesterday they were married. I attended their wedding. They looked brilliant in clothing designed by the theater’s best seamstresses. They always dreamed that their wedding would be celebrated  with cake, maids of honor, and best men. The notary, a portly man at once bald and beaming, sealed their union for all their life.

The party lasted until midnight. We danced. We threw confetti and rice. By now they should be enjoying their honeymoon in Venice. Both are excellent professionals. They saved up for their most important day whenever it might arrive.

María Cristina Botelho, María Rosa Lojo, Rosa Tezanos-Pinto

María Cristina Botelho, María Rosa Lojo, Rosa Tezanos-Pinto

 

As I wrote just now I modified the last sentence which, following the Spanish structure too closely, had it that “they saved up for whenever their most important day might arrive.” I am still uncertain about the last sentence in the first paragraph, whether it should read “all their lives” instead of “life,” or instead something more bold: maybe “until death do they part,” which has a better sound to it and packs more of a punch, while still being true to the meaning. Yes, I think that’s it: “until death do they part” it shall be!

I like this mini-fiction. The conceit of the diary entry justifies the bare-bones relation of the event, which need only be bare bones as that little bit says it all, with no need for editorializing. This might even be an easy one to place in some journal or magazine.

Spanish text © 2011 María Cristina Botelho                               English language translation © Brett Alan Sanders

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Notes from My Journal: the Chicago-Indianapolis Book Tour (Part 2: María Rosa Lojo and the Revelation of the Hidden)

Bolivians at Indianapolis

Los Bolivianos, Lilly Auditorium, Indiana University-Purdue University at Indianapolis

Saturday, November 19

Passionate Nomads The event yesterday evening in Indianapolis was better attended, it’s being on a campus with lots of students to be brought in. And it went well. The time was shared by a Bolivian writer, María Cristina Botelho, resident now in Indy with her daughter Paola and [Paola’s] husband and child. I don’t  have my copies of her books with me right now in the University Place Hotel where I am writing, but in the trunk of the car which awaits us in the underground parking garage. One is a slim collection of short fiction and the other, even thinner, a collection of poems. She presented first, we after her. It was just María Rosa and I at the table; María Rosa spoke briefly to introduce the subject, I followed with a brief talk (perfectly informal) about how I came to translate this work. She followed with a slide-show presentation tracing her personal history of coming to Mansilla as a subject, etc., then I with a brief reading – the passage toward novel’s end containing the Ranquel chief Mariano Rosas’ eloquent speech to his ghostly compatriots. Much as Thursday night except that Jay introduced us then and Professor Rosa Tezanos-Pinto sat with us at the table and read a rather lengthy background-bio about María Rosa and her work. (After the session last night she gave me a signed copy of the book of essays she and two other editors compiled in relation to María Rosa and her literary ouvre.)

María Cristina Botelho, María Rosa Lojo, Rosa Tezanos-Pinto

María Cristina Botelho, María Rosa Lojo, Rosa Tezanos-Pinto

My father attended last night. While Thursday’s session was conducted in English, last night’s was in Spanish. Dad listened intently, understanding parts; and told Anita later that he was proud of me. Anita, for her part, had a hard time staying awake for this one, except when I read in English; the previous night I was delighted to look out and see her wide smile from the front row.

***

Table Talk at Indianapolis Bar

Table Talk: José Luis, Rosa, María Cristina, Paola, Anita, María Rosa, Brett

At home now, 10:00 pm Central time, after partially settling in this evening after supper at Fiesta Grande, where Anita and my former ESL student Mercedes Mendez conspired to have an over-sized ceremonial Pancho Villa hat placed on my head while they presented me with a complimentary sopapilla con helado, and sang me a happy birthday two days early. It was a pleasant enough way to cap off my three-day mini book tour. Today, technically, was post-book tour, but a few hours of it spent with friendships both renewed and newly formed. My day’s earlier writing, in fact,  was sandwiched between 9:00 Eastern (Indianapolis) breakfast in our hotel room and 11:00 check-out, when I put our bags in the car and we headed out with María Rosa, our hostess Rosa, and her charming and solicitous husband and fellow professor José Luis. Departing to where? After a side excursion to their home where José picked up an old GPS  – “to give to Braulio,” he sweetly said to his wife, in his soft, delicate voice – to help me get around in and about big cities. [Braulio is a nickname acquired in Argentina, and Anita’s pet name for me.] The previous night, after the presentation at the IUPUI university library, Lilly Auditorium, we had gone with them and with María Cristina and María Paola to an upscale restaurant-bar where we had drinks and a variety of snacks that we shared all around the crowded corner table. It was a social gathering, full of laughter and conversation, that had all the feel of a South American gathering of family and friends. A gathering at which José Luis seemed to take me under his wings, coaching me on which drink to try (a combination of wine and champagne, very good) and how to properly eat an oyster – a first for me. I feel deeply touched by his and Rosa’s generosity in particular. Of course, the visit with María Rosa, the reunion, to be clear, was wonderful even moreso for the bonding with Anita who now has her own connection into my international social world and even wants now to visit Argentina.

But where to this morning and early afternoon? I asked in the previous paragraph, and the sentence got away from me before I could answer it. We went to the Eiteljorg Museum which features the Native American experience in Indiana as well as further afield in our American West. María Rosa, so intent on the lives of those who the official histories have disappeared, written off, erased from the record to the extent possible, was enthralled with it. From there, before their dropping Anita and me at the hotel where we retrieved our rental car for the journey south, then whisked María Rosa away to the airport in time for her flight out of Indy – next stop, Virginia – from there, as I was saying, from that remarkable museum, to what I think was called the Barcelona Tapas Café where we shared some Spanish foods.

María Rosa's daughter Leonor's childhood art as backdrop to Brett's reading from Passionate Nomads

María Rosa's daughter Leonor's childhood art as backdrop to Brett's reading from Passionate Nomads

Leonor Beuter, artist

Leonor Beuter Lojo, artist

About María Rosa and her devotion to the recovery of the histories of indigenous American Others, a couple of notes from her presentation complete with computer-aided slide show: one, there was a darling picture of her at perhaps four years old, on “the greatest day of her life,” sitting at the wooden writer’s desk that she had wanted after her maternal grandmother had taught her to read and write, absolutely beaming with joy, sitting at the desk with which she felt herself now to be officially a writer, the desk which had been placed on her shoes outside on the patio by the Three Magi after the camels had eaten their grass. Secondly, an equally charming “portrait of the teenage girl as a young artist,” when she had commenced her career as a poet. In the first picture, hair cropped short; in the second, beautifully long. (On this visit, by the way, her hair is long again, though styled differently and not quite as long – perhaps for husband Oscar.) Combine those with her introduction to what [Argentine filmmaker] Atilio Perin called “the singularity” of Lucio Victorio Mansilla, who she read at about the time of that second photo, and which revealed to her a world that what she had learned in school totally hid from view. That was the commencement of her passion to reveal the hidden. Besides that, as she explained it, alluding to her “Minimal Autobiography” – recently published in Marjorie Agosín’s anthology, “which was also translated by Brett Alan Sanders” – it was by these means that she established herself, “the exiled daughter,” with roots in this American soil so distant from the mythic Galicia to which the father’s longing required her to “return” without having ever been there. But returning now not as a homeless girl but as a young woman with roots on both sides of the Atlantic, in different and even multiple worlds. Leonor had helped her put the visual aid together, and did a wonderful job. The last image was a briefly and elaborately crayoned picture of Leonor’s when she was a precocious child with vocation not unlike her mother who already wanted to be a writer – and the desk, which the child María Rosa had asked for with exactly that intention.