She was driving Ben to a friend’s house, and this added journey was the cause of some irritation in her day; she had too much else to do. Though she did like the privacy of the car, the feeling of his voice coming over her shoulder as she checked the mirror and slowed to make a turn. He was up on the booster seat—Ben was small for eight—and he looked out the window at suburban streets and parked cars, while she used his mobile phone to map the route. She had it down by the gearshift, propped up on the gray plastic fascia. It was hard to read the little arrow through the disaster of Ben’s cracked screen—the thing was rarely out of his hand, unless he dropped it. Now he looked out on the real world as though mildly surprised it was there.“I don’t like Barry McIntyre,” he said.
“No? Why not?”
They had their best chats in the car. If they’d been at home, he would have said, “Dunno,” or “Just . . .” In the car, he said things like “I like boys, though. I do like boys.”
“Of course you do.”
She wondered why he couldn’t speak when they were face to face. What was it about her eyes on him that made him shrug and shift under his clothes?
“You are a boy.”
“I know that,” he said.
Of course, she was his mother, so when she looked at him she was always checking him over to adjust or admire. Though she tried not to. She really tried not to turn into the kind of woman who said, “Sit up straight,” or “Leave your hair alone.”
“Well, then.”
She glanced at the rearview mirror and saw only the side of his head. His coarse hair was darkening through the winter. In a year or two, it would be fully brown.
“I just hate basketball.”
“Do you?”
“I really do.”
Recently, he had used the word “gay” as an insult. “That’s so gay,” he’d said at dinner, and his little sister missed a beat.
“Of course you like basketball,” she said warmly. That lie.
He did not answer.
“Does Barry McIntyre play basketball?”
In the rearview mirror, she saw his hand move toward his hidden face.
“Leave your nose alone!” she said.
It was hard not to. They were so temporarily beautiful, her children. They were so perfect, and then they were not perfect. She loved them too much to let them be.
She drove on while he watched the Dublin suburbs: spring trees, semidetached houses, a bundled old citizen walking her dog. The phone app was taking her down a familiar street, though it was an unfamiliar route, one she would not have known to take herself. Ben’s friend was called Ava, and she was new. She lived in St. Clare Crescent, which was somewhere near the motorway, apparently. But they did not take the motorway; they took a network of small streets, some of which she had driven down before—this was the way to the garden center, that was the way to the dog groomer’s—without knowing that you could cross from one to the other if you turned at the right place.
“Would you rather?” Ben said, then he stopped.
If you did not let Ben know that you were listening, he would refuse to continue.
“What?” she said, finally.
And, now that he knew he had her full attention, he said, “Would you rather drink a cup of lava or be drowned in a lava lake?”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Would you rather?”
“Not this again.”
“Which?”
“You can’t drink lava.”
“Yes, you can.”
“In a cup?”
“A stone cup.”
“I’ll take the lake.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof or have a tree fall on your head?”
He was obsessed with choices, especially impossible ones.
“Neither. I would rather neither of those things happened to me.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof,” he insisted, “or have a tree fall on your head?”
Maybe he was obsessed with death itself. There was no getting out of it, one way or the other.
“Roof,” she said.
“O.K.”
“What about you?”
“Yeah, roof,” he admitted.
“Not your best,” she said.
He paused, took the challenge.
“Would you rather be stung to death by fire ants or strung up by your toes from a big crane until your head burst?”
“Lovely!”
He would keep going until she was completely stuck.
“Crane, please.”
“Would you rather drown in the dark or be strangled in the dark?”
He would keep going until she was actually dead.
“Seriously?”
“A huge dark lake full of eels.”
“Really not. Absolutely not. I would not rather.”
She was taken, as she drove, by the memory of a night swim, many years before Ben was born. It was in a lake, in the Irish countryside; a gang of them coming back from the pub, no moon, no sex, at a guess—not that morning, or the night before, when they were supposed to have their holiday-cottage sex—and she pulled her dress up over her head as she made her way, in the darkness, toward the lake. Of course there was a man in the group who was not, actually, the man she was seeing at the time; he was some other, forbidden man. And neither of these men would later become the father of the boy now sitting in the back seat. Getting naked in the deserted woodland in the middle of the night was a taunt to both of them—either one would do. It was all a long time ago.
The dress was a blue linen shift, loose and practical, her underwear possibly quite fancy and impractical in those days before booster seats and children with sleepovers and phones that told you which way to turn. Her body also a finer thing, back then, if only she had known it. And she was drunk, so the pathway down to the little boardwalk was patchily remembered, her experience at the time also patchy, though it slowed and cleared when she dropped her dress onto the still-warm wood and looked out over the water. There were turf grains in the silk of it that turned the lake brown, even in daylight. Now, at midnight, it was darker than you could imagine, so it was like a sixth sense, the feeling of open space in front of her. When she looked down, she saw the blackness gleam, like oil. She sat at the dock’s edge to unclip her fancy bra and shrugged it off. A man’s voice telling her to stop. Another man saying nothing. A woman’s voice, saying, “No, really, Michelle.” And she was in. She pushed out from the wooden lip as she dropped down into it, was swallowed in a bang of water that turned to a liquid silence, then she struggled back up to where the air began. Black water into black air.
As she rose and turned, she could feel the alcohol swell under the surface of her skin, and the water was not so much cold as numb. Or she was numb. The water slipped past her as she hauled her way through it, in a long, reaching overarm that took her away from everyone, even as she seemed to stay in the same place. She could tell by their voices that she was moving—the fragments of sound she caught as she plowed along the surface, out toward the center of the lake.
If it was the center. If it was even the surface she was swimming along. It was so dark and wet that it was hard to know if her eyes were closed or open. She was afraid that she was not quite level, as she swam, that she was tilting downward, afraid that when she turned her face up to inhale she would find only water. The shouts from the bank were more sporadic now; it was as though they had given up on her as she circled or tried to circle back toward them, because the scraps of sound gave her a sense of horizon and it was important not to lose this. She needed to know which way was up. She pulled the water along the sides of her body, and though she twisted into it as she went, she was not sure that she was making the turn. She should just stop a moment and get her bearings, but she could not stop; she did not want to. It was—this was the secret, sudden thing—so delicious. Not knowing which way was which, or where the edges were. She was dissolved by it. She could drown right now and it would be a pleasure.
She caught a flash of her white arm, a sinewy gleam that she followed—her body its own compass—until she heard, on the bank, the voice of the man she was supposed to sleep with, saw the intermittent cigarette glow of the man she was not supposed to sleep with (and never did, for some reason; perhaps she had him fully spooked). Her big statement was a little undercut, in the shallows, by the sharpness of the stones in the silt under her feet as she made her way up out of the lake, toward recrimination and cold-skinned sex.
She woke up the next morning with a start, the previous night’s slightly watery consummation already forgotten, wasted. It had happened without her. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled air into her lungs. She was alive. And she put this fact into her mind. Jammed it right in the center of her mind. She could never do that again. She was twenty-four years old, and she was giving up death. Drunk or sober, there would be no more lakes after dark.
“You know, Ben, you should never swim at night,” she said now, more than twenty years later, sitting in her Hyundai hybrid. Accelerator, brake, mirror, clutch.
“Would you rather?” Ben said.
“No, really, you have to promise me not to do that, ever. Not in a lake, because there is no salt in a lake to hold you up, and especially not in the sea. You must always respect the sea. It’s bigger than you. Do you hear me? And you must never, ever swim if you have taken alcohol, or even if your friends have. If a friend has had a couple of beers when you are a teen-ager and he says, ‘Come on, it’ll be fun!,’ what do you say?”
“Would you rather,” Ben said, patiently.
“No, I wouldn’t. I really would not rather. I would not rather die one way or the other way. What is your problem, Ben?”
They were in a street of newly built semidetached houses, depressingly small and endlessly the same. Tiny gardens: rowan tree, cherry tree, silver birch, ornamental willow—a horrible pompom on a stick. She did not know what she was doing in this place. It was coming to catch her, even here. It was coming to catch her children—her own foolishness; it had followed her out of the water. The night swim was not the end of it; she had been in thrall to death for some time afterward—months, a year. Because of course you could leave the lake but you could not leave desire itself, and all its impossibilities.
Though something was made possible. Something was made real. Something was resolved by the existence of the child in the back seat.
“Would you rather,” Ben said, “live in a turkey or have a turkey live inside you?”
“What?”
“Would you rather,” he repeated, in a forbearing way, “live in a turkey or have a turkey live inside you?”
“That is a very good question,” she said.
“Would you rather?”
“That is a truly great question. That is the best one yet.” She reached to the car radio and switched it on, hoping to distract him.
“Is that the place?” The app told her to take a right. “Is that where Ava lives?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s your friend.”
“No, she’s not. She’s not my friend. She’s just really, really pushy.” His hand rested, in anticipation, on the overnight bag beside him as she took the turn through large, open gates into a new development.
“Is this it?”
St. Clare Close, St. Clare Court. The little maze was set around an open green space, and in the center of the green was a grand, three-story building.
St. Clare’s itself.
There it was. All this time. She had lived five miles away from here, for a decade, and had never realized it was down this road, one she passed every so often, on her way somewhere else.
She had been driven here in a taxi nearly twenty years ago, when all around were green fields. She was terrified that the driver would know from the address that she was mad, though she wasn’t properly mad; she was just quite badly broken. She was sure he would know that there was a broken human being in his cab, that he would turn to sneer at her as they went through the gates, or as they were going up the driveway past tended gardens, to this large house, this facility.
The Sisters of St. Clare and St. Agnes. Private Nursing Home.
“Scraggy Aggy’s,” as it used to be known. The bin. She had typed the address into her son’s phone and thought nothing of it.
“Would you rather?” Ben said.
So that was why she had remembered the lake.
It was very strange, looking at the building from the outside. She had spent her time there in a small room and had seen the exterior perhaps twice: first in a skewed way, as she walked up the steps, and possibly once again in a backward glance when her father came to collect her. She had never gone into the gardens, which were now filled with smart new houses; it was possible that she had not been allowed. Or, more likely, she had not been supplied with clothes. She had slept a lot, or lain unmoving in her hospital-style bed. She did remember standing at a window—perhaps it was even that window on the third floor, where the building bulged out into a fat, round turret. She knew that the turret contained a flight of stairs and that she had looked out from the top of it, as a woman in a fairy tale might—though she was not in a fairy tale, she was in a fog of Mogadon, not to mention all the other junk she swallowed obediently, twice a day, wondering if she would ever, ever shit again. Nobody seemed to care about that. They cared about your feelings instead. Though “cared” was perhaps the wrong word. They observed your feelings.
“Mother,” Ben said—a word he used only when truly annoyed. She had forgotten to say “What?”
“What?” she said.
“Would you rather live in a turkey?”
“Is this the place?” she said. “Is this where she lives?”
She had slowed to a stop in the middle of the deserted street. A pair of tiny children, one of them just a toddler, were playing on the flight of broad granite steps that led up to the front door of the building that used to be Scraggy Aggy’s. The place had been turned into apartments—they probably cost a bomb. Other things came back to her as she looked at the façade: A foyer of sorts, where she had signed in. A large living room for the nuns, where her father had stood up from a chintz armchair as she walked through the door, ready to go home. It was the high-ceilinged room on the left, where the children’s mother had pinned the curtain back, to see that they did not wander far.
There had been a godforsaken day room where people went to smoke—she wondered where that was. They were all on twenty cigarettes a day, the broken ladies of the suburbs, with their trembling hands and their pretty dressing gowns. They’d sat in this stinking room, with its vinyl-covered armchairs, and looked at their wrists. She wondered who lived in that space now. Someone busy and young. Someone who put orchids on the sill of a window that had once been nailed shut. This person did not smoke. This person walked out of a lovely private flat into the public corridor where the sad people used to pace, all those years ago. Weeping, not weeping, silent, eying the pay phone.
“It’s No. 74.” Her son’s tone was one of bottomless contempt, and she saw that she had not moved, was stalled.
The toddler and the young child were actually contained by the steps, she realized. They stayed at the top, and peddled their tricycle on the flat surface. They did not approach the edge.
She had spent the past eight years of her life checking on the safety of small children.
The car rolled gently forward as Ben read out the numbers on the houses that faced onto the green: 67, 69, 71.
“Where are the evens?” she said, as they circled slowly around the back of the building as though driving into a trap. This is how her life had felt, just before it broke—everything had been too connected. And now it was happening again: the unwitting journey, the unfunny choices, the idea that her son knew, of course he did, you could smell it on her still: the brackish water of the lake.
She spotted the window of the day room, up on the second floor, and she was still up there, checking her wrists. Smoking away. Staring for weeks at a patch on the wall. Ben unknown to her. Her daughter unknown. They had not happened inside her body; they had not been born.
“There it is! Seventy-four, seventy-four!”
She stopped the car, pulled the hand brake, and twisted in her seat to look at her son, who was undoing his seat belt in the back. Ben glanced up at her, and he was beautiful. His hair needed a comb, and there was a gleam of something under his nose, but he was so very much himself. He looked at her from under long lashes, as though he had known her for a long time, and she was not inside the building. She was here now, on the outside, with him.
“Be good,” she said, as he grabbed the overnight bag and was gone. For a boy who didn’t like girls, he was quick getting to Ava’s front door.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven tomorrow.”
He came doubling back then. She thought for a moment that he wanted to kiss her goodbye, but he was just looking for his phone. She handed it through the window, then stuck her face out after it, for mischief.
“Mnnnnmm,” she said, puckering up. And he did kiss her, abruptly, before running back to the house, where Ava was now standing on the porch to welcome him in. A little blond pixie, with a sequinned heart on her T-shirt, jigging up and down at the sight of him.
The kiss was a clumsy thing. Fleshy. Swift. There was a dot of cold on her cheek, from the tip of his nose.
“Ben!” she shouted. “Hang on. Ben!”
“What?”
“I would rather have the turkey live inside me.”
“O.K.!” He took her answer quite seriously.
“No contest.”
It was just a question, she thought. And she checked the rearview mirror before pulling out.
♦
Published in The New Yorker print edition of the March, 9 2020, issue.
Sy neem Ben na ’n maatjie se huis en hierdie ekstra rit veroorsaak ’n mate van irritasie in haar dag; sy het te veel ander dinge om te doen. Tog geniet sy die privaatheid van haar kar, die gevoel van Ben se stem oor haar skouer as sy in die spieëltjie kyk en stadiger ry voor sy afdraai. Hy sit op sy spesiale stoeltjie – Ben is klein vir ’n agtjarige – en kyk by die venster uit na die voorstad se strate en geparkeerde motors, terwyl sy sy foon gebruik vir die roete. Dit staan onder by die rathefboom regop teen die grys plastiekkonsole. Dit is moeilik om die pyltjie deur die ramptoneel van ’n gekraakte skerm te volg – die ding is byna altyd in sy hand, tensy hy dit laat val. Nou kyk hy uit oor die regte wêreld asof hy effens verras is dat dit daar is. “Ek hou nie van Barry McIntyre nie,” sê hy.
“O? Hoekom nie?”
Hulle gesels altyd die lekkerste as hulle in die kar is. As hulle by die huis was, sou hy goed sê soos, “Weetie,” of “Sommer …” In die kar sê hy goed soos “Ek hou tog van seuns. Ek hou van seuns”.
“Natuurlik hou jy van seuns.”
Sy wonder hoekom hulle nie so kan praat wanneer hulle in mekaar se geselskap is nie. Wat sien hy in haar oë wat hom sy skouers laat optrek en ongemaklik in sy klere laat rondskuif?
“Jy is ’n seun.”
“Ek weet,” sê hy.
Maar sy is sy ma, so wanneer sy na hom kyk, is sy altyd besig om hom reg te trek of te bewonder. Al probeer sy om dit nie te doen nie. Sy probeer regtig om nie die tipe vrou te word wat sê: “Sit regop,” of “Los jou hare uit” nie.
“Nou goed dan.”
Sy kyk vlugtig in die truspieëltjie en sien net die kant van sy kop. In die winter word sy growwe hare donkerder. Oor ’n jaar of twee sal dit heeltemal bruin wees.
“Ek haat basketbal.”
“Regtig?”
“Ja, regtig.”
Onlangs het hy die woord “gay” as ’n belediging gebruik. “Dis so gay,” het hy tydens aandete gesê, en sy sussie was ’n oomblik van stryk.
“Eintlik hou jy mos van basketbal,” sê sy warm. Wat ’n leuen.
Hy antwoord nie.
“Speel Barry McIntyre basketbal?”
In die truspieëltjie sien sy hoe Ben se hand na sy versteekte gesig beweeg.
“Los uit jou neus!” sê sy.
Dit is moeilik om dit nie te doen nie. Hulle is mooi op so ’n tydelike manier, hierdie kinders van haar. Hulle is so perfek, en dan weer nie. Sy is te lief vir hulle om hulle net te laat begaan.
Sy ry verder terwyl hy die voorstede van Dublin bekyk – bome vol lenteblomme, skakelhuise, ’n styf toegedraaide tannie wat met haar hond stap. Die selfoonapp neem haar in ’n bekende straat af, hoewel dit ’n onbekende roete is, een wat sy nie op haar eie sou vat nie. Ben se nuwe maatjie se naam is Ava. Sy woon in St. Clare-singel, wat blykbaar êrens naby die snelweg is. Maar hulle neem nie die snelweg nie; hulle het al langs ’n netwerk van kleiner straatjies hier gekom, sommiges waardeur sy al voorheen gery het – dít was die roete op pad na die kwekery, daardie pad was die roete na die hondesalon – sonder om te besef dat jy uit die een in die ander kan oorgaan as jy by die regte plek draai.
“Sou jy liewer …?” sê Ben en dan hou hy op.
As jy Ben nie laat verstaan dat jy luister nie, sal hy weier om voort te gaan.
“Wat?” sê sy uiteindelik.
En noudat hy kan sien hy het haar volle aandag, sê hy: “Sou jy liewer ’n koppie lawa drink of in ’n lawameer verdrink?”
“Ag Vader tog.”
“Sou jy liewer …?”
“Nie al weer nie.”
“Kies.”
“ʼn Mens kan nie lawa drink nie.”
“Ja, ’n mens kan.”
“Uit ’n koppie?”
“Uit ’n klipkoppie.”
“Ek kies die meer.”
“Sou jy liewer van ’n dak af val of ’n boom op jou kop laat val?”
Hy het ’n obsessie met keuses, veral dié wat onmoontlik is.
“Nie een nie. Ek sou liewer dat nie een van daardie goed met my gebeur nie.”
“Sou jy liewer van ’n dak af val,” dring hy aan, “of ’n boom op jou kop laat val?”
Miskien het hy ’n obsessie met die dood self. Hieruit gaan sy nie kom nie, maak nie saak wat sy doen nie.
“Dak,” sê sy.
“Oukei.”
“En jy?”
“Ja, dak,” gee hy toe.
“Dis nie jou beste nie,” sê sy.
Hy wag ’n oomblik en aanvaar die uitdaging.
“Sou jy liewer doodgeknyp word deur rooimiere of aan jou tone aan ’n hyskraan vasgemaak word totdat jou kop bars?”
“Lieflik!”
Hy sal so aangaan totdat hy haar heeltemal vasgevra het.
“Hyskraan, asseblief.”
“Sou jy liewer in die donker verdrink of in die donker verwurg word?”
Hy sal so aanhou totdat sy werklik dood is.
“Is jy ernstig?”
“’n Groot donker meer vol palings.”
“Regtig nie. Glad nie. Ek sal liewer nie.”
Terwyl sy ry, word sy meegevoer deur ’n herinnering aan ’n aandswem baie jare voor Ben se geboorte. Dit was in ’n meer, op die Ierse platteland; ’n groep van hulle was op pad terug van ’n kroeg af, geen maan, geen seks, volgens haar – nie daardie oggend, of die vorige aand toe hulle veronderstel was om hulle vakansiehuisseks te hê nie – en sy het haar rok oor haar kop uitgetrek terwyl sy in die donker na die meer toe stap. Daar was natuurlik ’n man in die groep wat nie eintlik die man was met wie sy toe in ’n verhouding was nie; hy was een of ander verbode man. En nie een van hierdie mans sou later die pa van die seuntjie wees wat nou agter in die kar sit nie. Om in die middel van die nag in die verlate bos kaal uit te trek, sou enige een van die twee kon tart sy het nie omgegee watse een nie. Dit was alles lank gelede.
Dit was ’n slooprok van blou linne, bo die knie, los en prakties, haar onderklere moontlik heel fyn en onprakties in daardie dae voor spesiale stoeltjies en kinders wat oorslaap en fone wat vir jou sê waar jy moet afdraai. Haar liggaam ook mooi en fyn, as sy dit maar net toe geweet het. En sy was dronk, so van die paadjie na die houtkaai onthou sy net wasige flitse, haar ervaring in daardie oomblik ook wasig, hoewel dit stadiger en duideliker geword het toe sy haar rok op die louwarm hout laat val en oor die water uitkyk. Daar was watergras in die sygladde water wat die meer selfs in die daglig donkerbruin laat lyk het. Nou, teen middernag, was dit donkerder as wat mens jou kon verbeel, dit was soos ’n sesde sintuig, die oop ruimte voor haar wat sy kon voel. Toe sy afkyk, sien sy die donkerte blink, soos olie. Sy het op die kaai se rand gaan sit om haar fyn bra los te maak en van haar skouers te laat val. ’n Man se stem wat vir haar sê sy moet ophou. Nog ʼn man wat niks sê nie. ’n Vrou se stem wat sê: “Nee, regtig, Michelle.” En toe is sy in. Sy stoot haarself weg van die houtrand af terwyl sy ondertoe val en ingesluk word in ’n ontploffing van water wat in vloeibare stilte oorgaan, toe spartel sy terug boontoe waar die lug begin. Swart water na swart lug.
Terwyl sy opkom en draai, kon sy die alkohol onder haar vel voel opwel, en die water was nie so koud soos wat dit verdowend was nie. Of sy was verdoof. Die water gly by haar verby soos sy haarself met lang, uitgestrekte armhale daardeur trek wat haar van almal af wegneem, selfs al voel dit asof sy op dieselfde plek bly. Sy kon aan hulle stemme hoor dat sy beweeg – die klankfragmente wat sy kon opvang terwyl sy deur die oppervlak ploeg verder na die middel van die meer.
As dit ooit die middelpunt is. As dit ooit die oppervlak is waardeur sy swem. Dis so donker en nat dat dit moeilik is om te weet of haar oë oop of toe is. Sy is bang dat sy nie heeltemal gelyk met die oppervlak is nie, dat sy terwyl sy swem, besig is om na onder te kantel, bang dat wanneer sy haar gesig sou oplig om asem te skep, sy net water sou vind. Die geskree vanaf die oewer raak onreëlmatiger; dis asof hulle nie meer hoop het vir haar nie, terwyl sy draai of probeer terugdraai na hulle toe want die stukkies klank gee haar ’n gevoel van ’n horison en dis belangrik dat sy dit nie verloor nie. Sy moet weet watter kant bo is. Sy trek haar arms verby deur die water langs haar, en al draai sy terwyl sy swem, is sy nie seker of sy wel draai nie. Sy moet eintlik ’n oomblik stop en haar oriënteer, maar sy kan nie stop nie; sy wil nie. Dit is – en hier is die skielike, heerlike ding – só heerlik. Om nie te weet watter kant bo of onder is nie, of waar die kante is nie. Dit het haar opgelos. Sy kon op daardie oomblik verdrink en dit sou ’n plesier wees.
Sy sien haar wit arm, ’n seningrige flikkering wat sy begin volg – haar liggaam haar eie kompas – totdat sy op die oewer die stem hoor van die man by wie sy veronderstel was om te slaap, en die onderbroke sigaretkooltjie sien van die man by wie sy nie moes slaap nie (en om die een of ander rede nooit het nie; dalk het sy hom afgeskrik). Haar groot oomblik is in die vlak water ietwat gedemp deur die skerpheid van die klippe in die slik onder haar voete terwyl sy stadig uit die water stap na die verwyte toe, en na die koue seks.
Die volgende oggend skrik sy wakker, die vorige aand se ietwat afgewaterde konsumasie reeds vergete, vermors. Dit het sonder haar gebeur. Sy het op die rand van die bed gesit en diep asemgehaal. Sy het nog geleef. En sy het hierdie feit in haar kop gesit. Dit tot in die middel van haar kop ingehamer. Sy sou dit nooit weer kon doen nie. Sy was 24 jaar oud, en sy het die dood laat gaan. Dronk of nugter, daar sou nooit weer enige meer ná donker wees nie.
“Jy weet, Ben, jy moet nooit in die aand swem nie,” sê sy nou, meer as 20 jaar later, terwyl sy in haar Hyundai-hibried sit. Versneller, rem, spieëltjie, koppelaar.
“Sou jy liewer...?” sê Ben.
“Nee, ek’s ernstig, jy moet my belowe dat jy dit nóóit sal doen nie, nooit ooit nie. Nie in ’n meer nie, want daar is geen sout in ’n meer om jou bo te hou nie, en veral nie in die see nie. Jy moet altyd die see respekteer. Dis groter as jy. Luister jy? En jy moet nooit, ooit swem as jy gedrink het nie, of selfs as jou vriende het nie. As ’n vriend ’n paar biere drink wanneer julle tieners is en hy sê, ‘Komaan, dit sal lekker wees!’, wat moet jy sê?”
“Sou jy liewer ...,” sê Ben geduldig.
“Nee, ek sou nie. Ek sou regtig liewer nie. Ek sou nie liewer op een manier of ’n ander manier doodgaan nie. Wat is dit met jou, Ben?”
Hulle is in ’n straat met nuut geboude skakelhuise, depressief klein en nimmereindigend dieselfde. Klein tuintjies: lysterbessieboom, kersieboom, silwerberk, ornamentele wilgerboom – ’n aaklige tossel op ’n stok. Sy weet nie wat sy hier maak nie. Dit kom haar vang, selfs hier. Dit kom haar kinders vang – haar eie domheid; dit het haar uit die water gevolg. Die aandswem was nie die einde daarvan nie; sy was vir ’n ruk daarna verslaaf aan die dood – maande, ’n jaar. Want jy kan natuurlik die meer agterlaat, maar jy kan nie begeerte self en al die onmoontlikhede daarvan agterlaat nie.
Alhoewel … iets het moontlik geword. Iets het werklik geword. Iets is opgelos deur die bestaan van die kind op die agterste sitplek.
“Sou jy liewer,” sê Ben, “in ’n kalkoen bly of ’n kalkoen binne-in jou laat bly?”
“Wat?”
“Sou jy liewer,” herhaal hy, op ’n verdraagsame manier, “in ’n kalkoen bly of ’n kalkoen binne-in jou laat bly?”
“Dit is ’n baie goeie vraag,” sê sy.
“Sou jy liewer …?”
“Dit is werklikwaar ’n uitstekende vraag. Dis die beste een nog.” Sy steek haar hand uit na die kar se radio en skakel dit aan met die hoop dat dit sy aandag sal aflei.
“Is dit die plek?” Die app sê sy moet regs draai. “Is dit waar Ava bly?”
“Ek weet nie.”
“Sy’s jou maatjie.”
“Nee, sy is nie. Sy’s nie my maatjie nie. “Sy wil my net nie uitlos nie.” Sy hand rus in afwagting op die oornagsak langs hom toe sy deur groot, oop hekke by ’n nuwe ontwikkeling indraai.
“Is ons hier?”
St. Clare Close, St. Clare Court. Die klein doolhof is rondom ’n oop, groen ruimte geleë en in die middel daarvan is ’n groot drieverdiepinggebou.
St. Clare’s self.
Daar staan dit. Die heeltyd nog. Sy het ’n dekade lank minder as tien minute van die plek af gebly en nooit besef dis in hierdie pad af nie, een waar sy elke nou en dan verbygery het op pad iewers heen.
’n Taxi het haar byna 20 jaar gelede hierheen gebring toe alles in die omgewing nog groen veld was. Sy was vreesbevange dat die bestuurder uit die adres sou kon aflei dat sy mal is, alhoewel sy nie heeltemal mal was nie; sy was net nogal erg gebroke. Sy was seker hy het geweet daar is ’n gebroke mens in sy motor, dat hy sou omdraai om haar te spot terwyl hulle deur die hekke ry, of terwyl hulle verby versorgde tuine by die oprit opry na hierdie groot huis, na hierdie inrigting.
Die Susters van St. Clare en St. Agnes. Privaat Versorgingsoord.
“Scraggy Aggy’s” soos dit voorheen bekendgestaan het. Die malhuis. Sy het die adres op haar seun se foon ingetik en niks daarvan gedink nie.
“Sou jy liewer?” sê Ben.
So dis waarom sy die meer onthou het.
Dit is baie vreemd om van buite af na die gebou te kyk. Sy het haar tyd daar in ’n klein kamertjie deurgebring en die buitekant miskien twee keer gesien: eers skeefweg toe sy by die trappe opgeklim het, en waarskynlik weer toe sy vlugtig terugkyk toe haar pa haar kom haal het. Sy het nooit by die tuine, wat nou met oulike nuwe huise gevul is, ingegaan nie; dit is moontlik dat sy nie toegelaat is nie. Of, waarskynliker, sy het nie klere gekry nie. Sy het baie geslaap, of stil in haar hospitaaltipe bed gelê. Sy onthou wel hoe sy by ’n venster gestaan het – miskien was dit selfs daardie venster op die derde verdieping waar die gebou in ’n ronde, vet toring uitgestulp het. Sy weet daar is ’n stel trappe in die toring en dat sy van die bokant daarvan uitgekyk het soos ’n vrou in ’n sprokiesverhaal sou doen – maar sy was nie in ’n sprokie nie, sy was in ’n waas van Mogadon, om nie te praat van al die ander gemors wat sy twee keer per dag gehoorsaam afgesluk het terwyl sy gewonder het of sy ooit, ooit weer sou kon kak nie. Dit het nie gelyk asof enigiemand daaroor besorg was nie. Hulle was eerder besorg oor jou gevoelens. Maar “besorg” is dalk die verkeerde woord. Hulle het jou gevoelens waargeneem.
“Ma” sê Ben – ’n woord wat hy net gebruik as hy regtig geïrriteerd is. Sy het vergeet om “Wat?” te sê.
“Wat?” sê sy.
“Sou jy liewer in ’n kalkoen bly?”
“Is dit die plek?” sê sy. “Is dit waar sy bly?”
Sy ry stadiger tot sy in die middel van ’n verlate straat tot stilstand kom. Twee klein kindertjies, een van hulle net ’n peuter, speel op die stel breë graniettrappe wat na die voordeur van die gebou lei wat voorheen Scraggy Aggy’s was. Die plek is in woonstelle omskep – hulle kos seker ’n fortuin. Sy begin ander dinge onthou terwyl sy na die vooraansig kyk: een of ander voorportaal, waar sy moes inteken. ’n Groot woonkamer vir die nonne, waar haar pa uit ’n kitsch leunstoel opgestaan het toe sy by die deur inloop, reg om huis toe te gaan. Dit is die vertrek met die hoë plafon aan die linkerkant, waar die kinders se ma die gordyn oopgetrek het sodat sy kan seker maak dat hulle nie wegdwaal nie.
Daar was ’n godverlate ontspanningsaaltjie waar mense gaan rook het – sy wonder waar dit is. Hulle was almal op 20 sigarette per dag, die gebroke vroue van die voorstede met hulle bewerige hande en mooi kamerjasse. Hulle het in hierdie stink kamer met sy vinielbedekte leunstoele gesit en na hulle polse gekyk. Sy wonder wie se huis daardie plek nou is. Iemand wat besig en jonk is. Iemand wat orgideë op die vensterbank sit van ’n venster wat eens op ’n tyd toegespyker was. Hierdie persoon rook nie. Hierdie persoon stap by die lieflike privaat woonstel uit tot in die openbare gang waar die hartseer mense al daardie jare gelede heen en weer geloop het. Huilend, nie huilend nie, stil, terwyl hulle die betaalfoon dophou.
“Dis no. 74.” Haar seun se toon is dié van matelose minagting, en sy sien sy het nie beweeg nie, sy het gaan staan.
Die peuter en die jong kind is eintlik deur die trappe afgekamp, besef sy. Hulle bly aan die bokant, en ry met hulle driewiel op die plat oppervlak. Hulle beweeg nie nader aan die rand nie.
Sy het die afgelope agt jaar van haar lewe daaraan bestee om seker te maak dat jong kinders veilig is.
Die kar loop stadig vorentoe terwyl Ben die nommers van die huise aflees wat op die groen gedeelte uitkyk: 67, 69, 71.
“Waar is die ewe getalle?” sê sy, terwyl hulle stadig om die agterkant van die gebou draai asof hulle by ’n lokval inry. Dit is hoe haar lewe gevoel het net voordat dit in duie gestort het – alles was te nou verweef. En nou gebeur dit weer: die onbewuste reis, die lawwe keuses, die idee dat haar seun weet, natuurlik weet hy, jy kan dit nog steeds aan haar ruik: die brak water van die meer.
Sy sien die venster van die rookkamer raak, daar op die tweede verdieping, en sy is steeds daar, besig om na haar polse te staar. Aan die rook. Staar vir weke na ’n kol op die muur. Ben nog onbekend vir haar. Haar dogter onbekend. Hulle het nog nie in haar lyf gebeur nie; hulle is nog nie gebore nie.
“Daar is dit! Vier-en-sewentig, vier-en-sewentig!”
Sy hou stil, trek die handrem op, en draai na agter in haar sitplek om na haar seun te kyk wat besig is om sy sitplekgordel los te maak. Ben loer op na haar, en hy is pragtig. Sy hare moet gekam word, en daar is iets blinks onder sy neus, maar hy is regtig baie homself. Hy kyk na haar onderdeur sy lang wimpers, asof hy haar al’n lang tyd ken, en sy was nie binne-in die gebou nie. Sy is nou hier, aan die buitekant, saam met hom.
“Soet wees,” sê sy terwyl hy sy oornagsak gryp en verdwyn. Vir ’n seun wat nie van meisies hou nie, hardloop hy nogal vinnig na Ava se voordeur toe.
“Ek sal jou môre elfuur oplaai.”
Hy draai terug. Sy dog vir ’n oomblik hy wil haar kom soengroet, maar hy soek net sy foon. Sy gee dit vir hom deur die venster aan en steek dan haar gesig ondeund by die venster uit.
“Mmmm,” sê sy terwyl sy haar lippe tuit. En hy soen haar vinnig voordat hy terughardloop na die huis toe waar Ava nou op die stoep staan en wag om hom te verwelkom. ’n Klein, blonde feetjie met ’n blinkerhartjie op haar T-hemp, wat op en af spring toe sy hom sien.
Die soen was maar lomp. Pap. Vinnig. Daar is ’n koue kol op haar wang van die punt van sy neus.
“Ben!” roep sy. “Wag gou. Ben!”
“Wat?”
“Ek sou liewer dat ’n kalkoen binne-in my bly.”
“Oukei!” Hy neem haar antwoord nogal ernstig op.
“Ongetwyfeld.”
Dis maar net ’n vraag, dink sy. En sy kyk in haar truspieëltjie voordat sy wegtrek.
She was driving Ben to a friend’s house, and this added journey was the cause of some irritation in her day; she had too much else to do. Though she did like the privacy of the car, the feeling of his voice coming over her shoulder as she checked the mirror and slowed to make a turn. He was up on the booster seat—Ben was small for eight—and he looked out the window at suburban streets and parked cars, while she used his mobile phone to map the route. She had it down by the gearshift, propped up on the gray plastic fascia. It was hard to read the little arrow through the disaster of Ben’s cracked screen—the thing was rarely out of his hand, unless he dropped it. Now he looked out on the real world as though mildly surprised it was there.“I don’t like Barry McIntyre,” he said.
“No? Why not?”
They had their best chats in the car. If they’d been at home, he would have said, “Dunno,” or “Just . . .” In the car, he said things like “I like boys, though. I do like boys.”
“Of course you do.”
She wondered why he couldn’t speak when they were face to face. What was it about her eyes on him that made him shrug and shift under his clothes?
“You are a boy.”
“I know that,” he said.
Of course, she was his mother, so when she looked at him she was always checking him over to adjust or admire. Though she tried not to. She really tried not to turn into the kind of woman who said, “Sit up straight,” or “Leave your hair alone.”
“Well, then.”
She glanced at the rearview mirror and saw only the side of his head. His coarse hair was darkening through the winter. In a year or two, it would be fully brown.
“I just hate basketball.”
“Do you?”
“I really do.”
Recently, he had used the word “gay” as an insult. “That’s so gay,” he’d said at dinner, and his little sister missed a beat.
“Of course you like basketball,” she said warmly. That lie.
He did not answer.
“Does Barry McIntyre play basketball?”
In the rearview mirror, she saw his hand move toward his hidden face.
“Leave your nose alone!” she said.
It was hard not to. They were so temporarily beautiful, her children. They were so perfect, and then they were not perfect. She loved them too much to let them be.
She drove on while he watched the Dublin suburbs: spring trees, semidetached houses, a bundled old citizen walking her dog. The phone app was taking her down a familiar street, though it was an unfamiliar route, one she would not have known to take herself. Ben’s friend was called Ava, and she was new. She lived in St. Clare Crescent, which was somewhere near the motorway, apparently. But they did not take the motorway; they took a network of small streets, some of which she had driven down before—this was the way to the garden center, that was the way to the dog groomer’s—without knowing that you could cross from one to the other if you turned at the right place.
“Would you rather?” Ben said, then he stopped.
If you did not let Ben know that you were listening, he would refuse to continue.
“What?” she said, finally.
And, now that he knew he had her full attention, he said, “Would you rather drink a cup of lava or be drowned in a lava lake?”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Would you rather?”
“Not this again.”
“Which?”
“You can’t drink lava.”
“Yes, you can.”
“In a cup?”
“A stone cup.”
“I’ll take the lake.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof or have a tree fall on your head?”
He was obsessed with choices, especially impossible ones.
“Neither. I would rather neither of those things happened to me.”
“Would you rather fall off a roof,” he insisted, “or have a tree fall on your head?”
Maybe he was obsessed with death itself. There was no getting out of it, one way or the other.
“Roof,” she said.
“O.K.”
“What about you?”
“Yeah, roof,” he admitted.
“Not your best,” she said.
He paused, took the challenge.
“Would you rather be stung to death by fire ants or strung up by your toes from a big crane until your head burst?”
“Lovely!”
He would keep going until she was completely stuck.
“Crane, please.”
“Would you rather drown in the dark or be strangled in the dark?”
He would keep going until she was actually dead.
“Seriously?”
“A huge dark lake full of eels.”
“Really not. Absolutely not. I would not rather.”
She was taken, as she drove, by the memory of a night swim, many years before Ben was born. It was in a lake, in the Irish countryside; a gang of them coming back from the pub, no moon, no sex, at a guess—not that morning, or the night before, when they were supposed to have their holiday-cottage sex—and she pulled her dress up over her head as she made her way, in the darkness, toward the lake. Of course there was a man in the group who was not, actually, the man she was seeing at the time; he was some other, forbidden man. And neither of these men would later become the father of the boy now sitting in the back seat. Getting naked in the deserted woodland in the middle of the night was a taunt to both of them—either one would do. It was all a long time ago.
The dress was a blue linen shift, loose and practical, her underwear possibly quite fancy and impractical in those days before booster seats and children with sleepovers and phones that told you which way to turn. Her body also a finer thing, back then, if only she had known it. And she was drunk, so the pathway down to the little boardwalk was patchily remembered, her experience at the time also patchy, though it slowed and cleared when she dropped her dress onto the still-warm wood and looked out over the water. There were turf grains in the silk of it that turned the lake brown, even in daylight. Now, at midnight, it was darker than you could imagine, so it was like a sixth sense, the feeling of open space in front of her. When she looked down, she saw the blackness gleam, like oil. She sat at the dock’s edge to unclip her fancy bra and shrugged it off. A man’s voice telling her to stop. Another man saying nothing. A woman’s voice, saying, “No, really, Michelle.” And she was in. She pushed out from the wooden lip as she dropped down into it, was swallowed in a bang of water that turned to a liquid silence, then she struggled back up to where the air began. Black water into black air.
As she rose and turned, she could feel the alcohol swell under the surface of her skin, and the water was not so much cold as numb. Or she was numb. The water slipped past her as she hauled her way through it, in a long, reaching overarm that took her away from everyone, even as she seemed to stay in the same place. She could tell by their voices that she was moving—the fragments of sound she caught as she plowed along the surface, out toward the center of the lake.
If it was the center. If it was even the surface she was swimming along. It was so dark and wet that it was hard to know if her eyes were closed or open. She was afraid that she was not quite level, as she swam, that she was tilting downward, afraid that when she turned her face up to inhale she would find only water. The shouts from the bank were more sporadic now; it was as though they had given up on her as she circled or tried to circle back toward them, because the scraps of sound gave her a sense of horizon and it was important not to lose this. She needed to know which way was up. She pulled the water along the sides of her body, and though she twisted into it as she went, she was not sure that she was making the turn. She should just stop a moment and get her bearings, but she could not stop; she did not want to. It was—this was the secret, sudden thing—so delicious. Not knowing which way was which, or where the edges were. She was dissolved by it. She could drown right now and it would be a pleasure.
She caught a flash of her white arm, a sinewy gleam that she followed—her body its own compass—until she heard, on the bank, the voice of the man she was supposed to sleep with, saw the intermittent cigarette glow of the man she was not supposed to sleep with (and never did, for some reason; perhaps she had him fully spooked). Her big statement was a little undercut, in the shallows, by the sharpness of the stones in the silt under her feet as she made her way up out of the lake, toward recrimination and cold-skinned sex.
She woke up the next morning with a start, the previous night’s slightly watery consummation already forgotten, wasted. It had happened without her. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled air into her lungs. She was alive. And she put this fact into her mind. Jammed it right in the center of her mind. She could never do that again. She was twenty-four years old, and she was giving up death. Drunk or sober, there would be no more lakes after dark.
“You know, Ben, you should never swim at night,” she said now, more than twenty years later, sitting in her Hyundai hybrid. Accelerator, brake, mirror, clutch.
“Would you rather?” Ben said.
“No, really, you have to promise me not to do that, ever. Not in a lake, because there is no salt in a lake to hold you up, and especially not in the sea. You must always respect the sea. It’s bigger than you. Do you hear me? And you must never, ever swim if you have taken alcohol, or even if your friends have. If a friend has had a couple of beers when you are a teen-ager and he says, ‘Come on, it’ll be fun!,’ what do you say?”
“Would you rather,” Ben said, patiently.
“No, I wouldn’t. I really would not rather. I would not rather die one way or the other way. What is your problem, Ben?”
They were in a street of newly built semidetached houses, depressingly small and endlessly the same. Tiny gardens: rowan tree, cherry tree, silver birch, ornamental willow—a horrible pompom on a stick. She did not know what she was doing in this place. It was coming to catch her, even here. It was coming to catch her children—her own foolishness; it had followed her out of the water. The night swim was not the end of it; she had been in thrall to death for some time afterward—months, a year. Because of course you could leave the lake but you could not leave desire itself, and all its impossibilities.
Though something was made possible. Something was made real. Something was resolved by the existence of the child in the back seat.
“Would you rather,” Ben said, “live in a turkey or have a turkey live inside you?”
“What?”
“Would you rather,” he repeated, in a forbearing way, “live in a turkey or have a turkey live inside you?”
“That is a very good question,” she said.
“Would you rather?”
“That is a truly great question. That is the best one yet.” She reached to the car radio and switched it on, hoping to distract him.
“Is that the place?” The app told her to take a right. “Is that where Ava lives?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s your friend.”
“No, she’s not. She’s not my friend. She’s just really, really pushy.” His hand rested, in anticipation, on the overnight bag beside him as she took the turn through large, open gates into a new development.
“Is this it?”
St. Clare Close, St. Clare Court. The little maze was set around an open green space, and in the center of the green was a grand, three-story building.
St. Clare’s itself.
There it was. All this time. She had lived five miles away from here, for a decade, and had never realized it was down this road, one she passed every so often, on her way somewhere else.
She had been driven here in a taxi nearly twenty years ago, when all around were green fields. She was terrified that the driver would know from the address that she was mad, though she wasn’t properly mad; she was just quite badly broken. She was sure he would know that there was a broken human being in his cab, that he would turn to sneer at her as they went through the gates, or as they were going up the driveway past tended gardens, to this large house, this facility.
The Sisters of St. Clare and St. Agnes. Private Nursing Home.
“Scraggy Aggy’s,” as it used to be known. The bin. She had typed the address into her son’s phone and thought nothing of it.
“Would you rather?” Ben said.
So that was why she had remembered the lake.
It was very strange, looking at the building from the outside. She had spent her time there in a small room and had seen the exterior perhaps twice: first in a skewed way, as she walked up the steps, and possibly once again in a backward glance when her father came to collect her. She had never gone into the gardens, which were now filled with smart new houses; it was possible that she had not been allowed. Or, more likely, she had not been supplied with clothes. She had slept a lot, or lain unmoving in her hospital-style bed. She did remember standing at a window—perhaps it was even that window on the third floor, where the building bulged out into a fat, round turret. She knew that the turret contained a flight of stairs and that she had looked out from the top of it, as a woman in a fairy tale might—though she was not in a fairy tale, she was in a fog of Mogadon, not to mention all the other junk she swallowed obediently, twice a day, wondering if she would ever, ever shit again. Nobody seemed to care about that. They cared about your feelings instead. Though “cared” was perhaps the wrong word. They observed your feelings.
“Mother,” Ben said—a word he used only when truly annoyed. She had forgotten to say “What?”
“What?” she said.
“Would you rather live in a turkey?”
“Is this the place?” she said. “Is this where she lives?”
She had slowed to a stop in the middle of the deserted street. A pair of tiny children, one of them just a toddler, were playing on the flight of broad granite steps that led up to the front door of the building that used to be Scraggy Aggy’s. The place had been turned into apartments—they probably cost a bomb. Other things came back to her as she looked at the façade: A foyer of sorts, where she had signed in. A large living room for the nuns, where her father had stood up from a chintz armchair as she walked through the door, ready to go home. It was the high-ceilinged room on the left, where the children’s mother had pinned the curtain back, to see that they did not wander far.
There had been a godforsaken day room where people went to smoke—she wondered where that was. They were all on twenty cigarettes a day, the broken ladies of the suburbs, with their trembling hands and their pretty dressing gowns. They’d sat in this stinking room, with its vinyl-covered armchairs, and looked at their wrists. She wondered who lived in that space now. Someone busy and young. Someone who put orchids on the sill of a window that had once been nailed shut. This person did not smoke. This person walked out of a lovely private flat into the public corridor where the sad people used to pace, all those years ago. Weeping, not weeping, silent, eying the pay phone.
“It’s No. 74.” Her son’s tone was one of bottomless contempt, and she saw that she had not moved, was stalled.
The toddler and the young child were actually contained by the steps, she realized. They stayed at the top, and peddled their tricycle on the flat surface. They did not approach the edge.
She had spent the past eight years of her life checking on the safety of small children.
The car rolled gently forward as Ben read out the numbers on the houses that faced onto the green: 67, 69, 71.
“Where are the evens?” she said, as they circled slowly around the back of the building as though driving into a trap. This is how her life had felt, just before it broke—everything had been too connected. And now it was happening again: the unwitting journey, the unfunny choices, the idea that her son knew, of course he did, you could smell it on her still: the brackish water of the lake.
She spotted the window of the day room, up on the second floor, and she was still up there, checking her wrists. Smoking away. Staring for weeks at a patch on the wall. Ben unknown to her. Her daughter unknown. They had not happened inside her body; they had not been born.
“There it is! Seventy-four, seventy-four!”
She stopped the car, pulled the hand brake, and twisted in her seat to look at her son, who was undoing his seat belt in the back. Ben glanced up at her, and he was beautiful. His hair needed a comb, and there was a gleam of something under his nose, but he was so very much himself. He looked at her from under long lashes, as though he had known her for a long time, and she was not inside the building. She was here now, on the outside, with him.
“Be good,” she said, as he grabbed the overnight bag and was gone. For a boy who didn’t like girls, he was quick getting to Ava’s front door.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven tomorrow.”
He came doubling back then. She thought for a moment that he wanted to kiss her goodbye, but he was just looking for his phone. She handed it through the window, then stuck her face out after it, for mischief.
“Mnnnnmm,” she said, puckering up. And he did kiss her, abruptly, before running back to the house, where Ava was now standing on the porch to welcome him in. A little blond pixie, with a sequinned heart on her T-shirt, jigging up and down at the sight of him.
The kiss was a clumsy thing. Fleshy. Swift. There was a dot of cold on her cheek, from the tip of his nose.
“Ben!” she shouted. “Hang on. Ben!”
“What?”
“I would rather have the turkey live inside me.”
“O.K.!” He took her answer quite seriously.
“No contest.”
It was just a question, she thought. And she checked the rearview mirror before pulling out.
♦
Published in The New Yorker print edition of the March, 9 2020, issue.
Sy neem Ben na ’n maatjie se huis en hierdie ekstra rit veroorsaak ’n mate van irritasie in haar dag; sy het te veel ander dinge om te doen. Tog geniet sy die privaatheid van haar kar, die gevoel van Ben se stem oor haar skouer as sy in die spieëltjie kyk en stadiger ry voor sy afdraai. Hy sit op sy spesiale stoeltjie – Ben is klein vir ’n agtjarige – en kyk by die venster uit na die voorstad se strate en geparkeerde motors, terwyl sy sy foon gebruik vir die roete. Dit staan onder by die rathefboom regop teen die grys plastiekkonsole. Dit is moeilik om die pyltjie deur die ramptoneel van ’n gekraakte skerm te volg – die ding is byna altyd in sy hand, tensy hy dit laat val. Nou kyk hy uit oor die regte wêreld asof hy effens verras is dat dit daar is. “Ek hou nie van Barry McIntyre nie,” sê hy.
“O? Hoekom nie?”
Hulle gesels altyd die lekkerste as hulle in die kar is. As hulle by die huis was, sou hy goed sê soos, “Weetie,” of “Sommer …” In die kar sê hy goed soos “Ek hou tog van seuns. Ek hou van seuns”.
“Natuurlik hou jy van seuns.”
Sy wonder hoekom hulle nie so kan praat wanneer hulle in mekaar se geselskap is nie. Wat sien hy in haar oë wat hom sy skouers laat optrek en ongemaklik in sy klere laat rondskuif?
“Jy is ’n seun.”
“Ek weet,” sê hy.
Maar sy is sy ma, so wanneer sy na hom kyk, is sy altyd besig om hom reg te trek of te bewonder. Al probeer sy om dit nie te doen nie. Sy probeer regtig om nie die tipe vrou te word wat sê: “Sit regop,” of “Los jou hare uit” nie.
“Nou goed dan.”
Sy kyk vlugtig in die truspieëltjie en sien net die kant van sy kop. In die winter word sy growwe hare donkerder. Oor ’n jaar of twee sal dit heeltemal bruin wees.
“Ek haat basketbal.”
“Regtig?”
“Ja, regtig.”
Onlangs het hy die woord “gay” as ’n belediging gebruik. “Dis so gay,” het hy tydens aandete gesê, en sy sussie was ’n oomblik van stryk.
“Eintlik hou jy mos van basketbal,” sê sy warm. Wat ’n leuen.
Hy antwoord nie.
“Speel Barry McIntyre basketbal?”
In die truspieëltjie sien sy hoe Ben se hand na sy versteekte gesig beweeg.
“Los uit jou neus!” sê sy.
Dit is moeilik om dit nie te doen nie. Hulle is mooi op so ’n tydelike manier, hierdie kinders van haar. Hulle is so perfek, en dan weer nie. Sy is te lief vir hulle om hulle net te laat begaan.
Sy ry verder terwyl hy die voorstede van Dublin bekyk – bome vol lenteblomme, skakelhuise, ’n styf toegedraaide tannie wat met haar hond stap. Die selfoonapp neem haar in ’n bekende straat af, hoewel dit ’n onbekende roete is, een wat sy nie op haar eie sou vat nie. Ben se nuwe maatjie se naam is Ava. Sy woon in St. Clare-singel, wat blykbaar êrens naby die snelweg is. Maar hulle neem nie die snelweg nie; hulle het al langs ’n netwerk van kleiner straatjies hier gekom, sommiges waardeur sy al voorheen gery het – dít was die roete op pad na die kwekery, daardie pad was die roete na die hondesalon – sonder om te besef dat jy uit die een in die ander kan oorgaan as jy by die regte plek draai.
“Sou jy liewer …?” sê Ben en dan hou hy op.
As jy Ben nie laat verstaan dat jy luister nie, sal hy weier om voort te gaan.
“Wat?” sê sy uiteindelik.
En noudat hy kan sien hy het haar volle aandag, sê hy: “Sou jy liewer ’n koppie lawa drink of in ’n lawameer verdrink?”
“Ag Vader tog.”
“Sou jy liewer …?”
“Nie al weer nie.”
“Kies.”
“ʼn Mens kan nie lawa drink nie.”
“Ja, ’n mens kan.”
“Uit ’n koppie?”
“Uit ’n klipkoppie.”
“Ek kies die meer.”
“Sou jy liewer van ’n dak af val of ’n boom op jou kop laat val?”
Hy het ’n obsessie met keuses, veral dié wat onmoontlik is.
“Nie een nie. Ek sou liewer dat nie een van daardie goed met my gebeur nie.”
“Sou jy liewer van ’n dak af val,” dring hy aan, “of ’n boom op jou kop laat val?”
Miskien het hy ’n obsessie met die dood self. Hieruit gaan sy nie kom nie, maak nie saak wat sy doen nie.
“Dak,” sê sy.
“Oukei.”
“En jy?”
“Ja, dak,” gee hy toe.
“Dis nie jou beste nie,” sê sy.
Hy wag ’n oomblik en aanvaar die uitdaging.
“Sou jy liewer doodgeknyp word deur rooimiere of aan jou tone aan ’n hyskraan vasgemaak word totdat jou kop bars?”
“Lieflik!”
Hy sal so aangaan totdat hy haar heeltemal vasgevra het.
“Hyskraan, asseblief.”
“Sou jy liewer in die donker verdrink of in die donker verwurg word?”
Hy sal so aanhou totdat sy werklik dood is.
“Is jy ernstig?”
“’n Groot donker meer vol palings.”
“Regtig nie. Glad nie. Ek sal liewer nie.”
Terwyl sy ry, word sy meegevoer deur ’n herinnering aan ’n aandswem baie jare voor Ben se geboorte. Dit was in ’n meer, op die Ierse platteland; ’n groep van hulle was op pad terug van ’n kroeg af, geen maan, geen seks, volgens haar – nie daardie oggend, of die vorige aand toe hulle veronderstel was om hulle vakansiehuisseks te hê nie – en sy het haar rok oor haar kop uitgetrek terwyl sy in die donker na die meer toe stap. Daar was natuurlik ’n man in die groep wat nie eintlik die man was met wie sy toe in ’n verhouding was nie; hy was een of ander verbode man. En nie een van hierdie mans sou later die pa van die seuntjie wees wat nou agter in die kar sit nie. Om in die middel van die nag in die verlate bos kaal uit te trek, sou enige een van die twee kon tart sy het nie omgegee watse een nie. Dit was alles lank gelede.
Dit was ’n slooprok van blou linne, bo die knie, los en prakties, haar onderklere moontlik heel fyn en onprakties in daardie dae voor spesiale stoeltjies en kinders wat oorslaap en fone wat vir jou sê waar jy moet afdraai. Haar liggaam ook mooi en fyn, as sy dit maar net toe geweet het. En sy was dronk, so van die paadjie na die houtkaai onthou sy net wasige flitse, haar ervaring in daardie oomblik ook wasig, hoewel dit stadiger en duideliker geword het toe sy haar rok op die louwarm hout laat val en oor die water uitkyk. Daar was watergras in die sygladde water wat die meer selfs in die daglig donkerbruin laat lyk het. Nou, teen middernag, was dit donkerder as wat mens jou kon verbeel, dit was soos ’n sesde sintuig, die oop ruimte voor haar wat sy kon voel. Toe sy afkyk, sien sy die donkerte blink, soos olie. Sy het op die kaai se rand gaan sit om haar fyn bra los te maak en van haar skouers te laat val. ’n Man se stem wat vir haar sê sy moet ophou. Nog ʼn man wat niks sê nie. ’n Vrou se stem wat sê: “Nee, regtig, Michelle.” En toe is sy in. Sy stoot haarself weg van die houtrand af terwyl sy ondertoe val en ingesluk word in ’n ontploffing van water wat in vloeibare stilte oorgaan, toe spartel sy terug boontoe waar die lug begin. Swart water na swart lug.
Terwyl sy opkom en draai, kon sy die alkohol onder haar vel voel opwel, en die water was nie so koud soos wat dit verdowend was nie. Of sy was verdoof. Die water gly by haar verby soos sy haarself met lang, uitgestrekte armhale daardeur trek wat haar van almal af wegneem, selfs al voel dit asof sy op dieselfde plek bly. Sy kon aan hulle stemme hoor dat sy beweeg – die klankfragmente wat sy kon opvang terwyl sy deur die oppervlak ploeg verder na die middel van die meer.
As dit ooit die middelpunt is. As dit ooit die oppervlak is waardeur sy swem. Dis so donker en nat dat dit moeilik is om te weet of haar oë oop of toe is. Sy is bang dat sy nie heeltemal gelyk met die oppervlak is nie, dat sy terwyl sy swem, besig is om na onder te kantel, bang dat wanneer sy haar gesig sou oplig om asem te skep, sy net water sou vind. Die geskree vanaf die oewer raak onreëlmatiger; dis asof hulle nie meer hoop het vir haar nie, terwyl sy draai of probeer terugdraai na hulle toe want die stukkies klank gee haar ’n gevoel van ’n horison en dis belangrik dat sy dit nie verloor nie. Sy moet weet watter kant bo is. Sy trek haar arms verby deur die water langs haar, en al draai sy terwyl sy swem, is sy nie seker of sy wel draai nie. Sy moet eintlik ’n oomblik stop en haar oriënteer, maar sy kan nie stop nie; sy wil nie. Dit is – en hier is die skielike, heerlike ding – só heerlik. Om nie te weet watter kant bo of onder is nie, of waar die kante is nie. Dit het haar opgelos. Sy kon op daardie oomblik verdrink en dit sou ’n plesier wees.
Sy sien haar wit arm, ’n seningrige flikkering wat sy begin volg – haar liggaam haar eie kompas – totdat sy op die oewer die stem hoor van die man by wie sy veronderstel was om te slaap, en die onderbroke sigaretkooltjie sien van die man by wie sy nie moes slaap nie (en om die een of ander rede nooit het nie; dalk het sy hom afgeskrik). Haar groot oomblik is in die vlak water ietwat gedemp deur die skerpheid van die klippe in die slik onder haar voete terwyl sy stadig uit die water stap na die verwyte toe, en na die koue seks.
Die volgende oggend skrik sy wakker, die vorige aand se ietwat afgewaterde konsumasie reeds vergete, vermors. Dit het sonder haar gebeur. Sy het op die rand van die bed gesit en diep asemgehaal. Sy het nog geleef. En sy het hierdie feit in haar kop gesit. Dit tot in die middel van haar kop ingehamer. Sy sou dit nooit weer kon doen nie. Sy was 24 jaar oud, en sy het die dood laat gaan. Dronk of nugter, daar sou nooit weer enige meer ná donker wees nie.
“Jy weet, Ben, jy moet nooit in die aand swem nie,” sê sy nou, meer as 20 jaar later, terwyl sy in haar Hyundai-hibried sit. Versneller, rem, spieëltjie, koppelaar.
“Sou jy liewer...?” sê Ben.
“Nee, ek’s ernstig, jy moet my belowe dat jy dit nóóit sal doen nie, nooit ooit nie. Nie in ’n meer nie, want daar is geen sout in ’n meer om jou bo te hou nie, en veral nie in die see nie. Jy moet altyd die see respekteer. Dis groter as jy. Luister jy? En jy moet nooit, ooit swem as jy gedrink het nie, of selfs as jou vriende het nie. As ’n vriend ’n paar biere drink wanneer julle tieners is en hy sê, ‘Komaan, dit sal lekker wees!’, wat moet jy sê?”
“Sou jy liewer ...,” sê Ben geduldig.
“Nee, ek sou nie. Ek sou regtig liewer nie. Ek sou nie liewer op een manier of ’n ander manier doodgaan nie. Wat is dit met jou, Ben?”
Hulle is in ’n straat met nuut geboude skakelhuise, depressief klein en nimmereindigend dieselfde. Klein tuintjies: lysterbessieboom, kersieboom, silwerberk, ornamentele wilgerboom – ’n aaklige tossel op ’n stok. Sy weet nie wat sy hier maak nie. Dit kom haar vang, selfs hier. Dit kom haar kinders vang – haar eie domheid; dit het haar uit die water gevolg. Die aandswem was nie die einde daarvan nie; sy was vir ’n ruk daarna verslaaf aan die dood – maande, ’n jaar. Want jy kan natuurlik die meer agterlaat, maar jy kan nie begeerte self en al die onmoontlikhede daarvan agterlaat nie.
Alhoewel … iets het moontlik geword. Iets het werklik geword. Iets is opgelos deur die bestaan van die kind op die agterste sitplek.
“Sou jy liewer,” sê Ben, “in ’n kalkoen bly of ’n kalkoen binne-in jou laat bly?”
“Wat?”
“Sou jy liewer,” herhaal hy, op ’n verdraagsame manier, “in ’n kalkoen bly of ’n kalkoen binne-in jou laat bly?”
“Dit is ’n baie goeie vraag,” sê sy.
“Sou jy liewer …?”
“Dit is werklikwaar ’n uitstekende vraag. Dis die beste een nog.” Sy steek haar hand uit na die kar se radio en skakel dit aan met die hoop dat dit sy aandag sal aflei.
“Is dit die plek?” Die app sê sy moet regs draai. “Is dit waar Ava bly?”
“Ek weet nie.”
“Sy’s jou maatjie.”
“Nee, sy is nie. Sy’s nie my maatjie nie. “Sy wil my net nie uitlos nie.” Sy hand rus in afwagting op die oornagsak langs hom toe sy deur groot, oop hekke by ’n nuwe ontwikkeling indraai.
“Is ons hier?”
St. Clare Close, St. Clare Court. Die klein doolhof is rondom ’n oop, groen ruimte geleë en in die middel daarvan is ’n groot drieverdiepinggebou.
St. Clare’s self.
Daar staan dit. Die heeltyd nog. Sy het ’n dekade lank minder as tien minute van die plek af gebly en nooit besef dis in hierdie pad af nie, een waar sy elke nou en dan verbygery het op pad iewers heen.
’n Taxi het haar byna 20 jaar gelede hierheen gebring toe alles in die omgewing nog groen veld was. Sy was vreesbevange dat die bestuurder uit die adres sou kon aflei dat sy mal is, alhoewel sy nie heeltemal mal was nie; sy was net nogal erg gebroke. Sy was seker hy het geweet daar is ’n gebroke mens in sy motor, dat hy sou omdraai om haar te spot terwyl hulle deur die hekke ry, of terwyl hulle verby versorgde tuine by die oprit opry na hierdie groot huis, na hierdie inrigting.
Die Susters van St. Clare en St. Agnes. Privaat Versorgingsoord.
“Scraggy Aggy’s” soos dit voorheen bekendgestaan het. Die malhuis. Sy het die adres op haar seun se foon ingetik en niks daarvan gedink nie.
“Sou jy liewer?” sê Ben.
So dis waarom sy die meer onthou het.
Dit is baie vreemd om van buite af na die gebou te kyk. Sy het haar tyd daar in ’n klein kamertjie deurgebring en die buitekant miskien twee keer gesien: eers skeefweg toe sy by die trappe opgeklim het, en waarskynlik weer toe sy vlugtig terugkyk toe haar pa haar kom haal het. Sy het nooit by die tuine, wat nou met oulike nuwe huise gevul is, ingegaan nie; dit is moontlik dat sy nie toegelaat is nie. Of, waarskynliker, sy het nie klere gekry nie. Sy het baie geslaap, of stil in haar hospitaaltipe bed gelê. Sy onthou wel hoe sy by ’n venster gestaan het – miskien was dit selfs daardie venster op die derde verdieping waar die gebou in ’n ronde, vet toring uitgestulp het. Sy weet daar is ’n stel trappe in die toring en dat sy van die bokant daarvan uitgekyk het soos ’n vrou in ’n sprokiesverhaal sou doen – maar sy was nie in ’n sprokie nie, sy was in ’n waas van Mogadon, om nie te praat van al die ander gemors wat sy twee keer per dag gehoorsaam afgesluk het terwyl sy gewonder het of sy ooit, ooit weer sou kon kak nie. Dit het nie gelyk asof enigiemand daaroor besorg was nie. Hulle was eerder besorg oor jou gevoelens. Maar “besorg” is dalk die verkeerde woord. Hulle het jou gevoelens waargeneem.
“Ma” sê Ben – ’n woord wat hy net gebruik as hy regtig geïrriteerd is. Sy het vergeet om “Wat?” te sê.
“Wat?” sê sy.
“Sou jy liewer in ’n kalkoen bly?”
“Is dit die plek?” sê sy. “Is dit waar sy bly?”
Sy ry stadiger tot sy in die middel van ’n verlate straat tot stilstand kom. Twee klein kindertjies, een van hulle net ’n peuter, speel op die stel breë graniettrappe wat na die voordeur van die gebou lei wat voorheen Scraggy Aggy’s was. Die plek is in woonstelle omskep – hulle kos seker ’n fortuin. Sy begin ander dinge onthou terwyl sy na die vooraansig kyk: een of ander voorportaal, waar sy moes inteken. ’n Groot woonkamer vir die nonne, waar haar pa uit ’n kitsch leunstoel opgestaan het toe sy by die deur inloop, reg om huis toe te gaan. Dit is die vertrek met die hoë plafon aan die linkerkant, waar die kinders se ma die gordyn oopgetrek het sodat sy kan seker maak dat hulle nie wegdwaal nie.
Daar was ’n godverlate ontspanningsaaltjie waar mense gaan rook het – sy wonder waar dit is. Hulle was almal op 20 sigarette per dag, die gebroke vroue van die voorstede met hulle bewerige hande en mooi kamerjasse. Hulle het in hierdie stink kamer met sy vinielbedekte leunstoele gesit en na hulle polse gekyk. Sy wonder wie se huis daardie plek nou is. Iemand wat besig en jonk is. Iemand wat orgideë op die vensterbank sit van ’n venster wat eens op ’n tyd toegespyker was. Hierdie persoon rook nie. Hierdie persoon stap by die lieflike privaat woonstel uit tot in die openbare gang waar die hartseer mense al daardie jare gelede heen en weer geloop het. Huilend, nie huilend nie, stil, terwyl hulle die betaalfoon dophou.
“Dis no. 74.” Haar seun se toon is dié van matelose minagting, en sy sien sy het nie beweeg nie, sy het gaan staan.
Die peuter en die jong kind is eintlik deur die trappe afgekamp, besef sy. Hulle bly aan die bokant, en ry met hulle driewiel op die plat oppervlak. Hulle beweeg nie nader aan die rand nie.
Sy het die afgelope agt jaar van haar lewe daaraan bestee om seker te maak dat jong kinders veilig is.
Die kar loop stadig vorentoe terwyl Ben die nommers van die huise aflees wat op die groen gedeelte uitkyk: 67, 69, 71.
“Waar is die ewe getalle?” sê sy, terwyl hulle stadig om die agterkant van die gebou draai asof hulle by ’n lokval inry. Dit is hoe haar lewe gevoel het net voordat dit in duie gestort het – alles was te nou verweef. En nou gebeur dit weer: die onbewuste reis, die lawwe keuses, die idee dat haar seun weet, natuurlik weet hy, jy kan dit nog steeds aan haar ruik: die brak water van die meer.
Sy sien die venster van die rookkamer raak, daar op die tweede verdieping, en sy is steeds daar, besig om na haar polse te staar. Aan die rook. Staar vir weke na ’n kol op die muur. Ben nog onbekend vir haar. Haar dogter onbekend. Hulle het nog nie in haar lyf gebeur nie; hulle is nog nie gebore nie.
“Daar is dit! Vier-en-sewentig, vier-en-sewentig!”
Sy hou stil, trek die handrem op, en draai na agter in haar sitplek om na haar seun te kyk wat besig is om sy sitplekgordel los te maak. Ben loer op na haar, en hy is pragtig. Sy hare moet gekam word, en daar is iets blinks onder sy neus, maar hy is regtig baie homself. Hy kyk na haar onderdeur sy lang wimpers, asof hy haar al’n lang tyd ken, en sy was nie binne-in die gebou nie. Sy is nou hier, aan die buitekant, saam met hom.
“Soet wees,” sê sy terwyl hy sy oornagsak gryp en verdwyn. Vir ’n seun wat nie van meisies hou nie, hardloop hy nogal vinnig na Ava se voordeur toe.
“Ek sal jou môre elfuur oplaai.”
Hy draai terug. Sy dog vir ’n oomblik hy wil haar kom soengroet, maar hy soek net sy foon. Sy gee dit vir hom deur die venster aan en steek dan haar gesig ondeund by die venster uit.
“Mmmm,” sê sy terwyl sy haar lippe tuit. En hy soen haar vinnig voordat hy terughardloop na die huis toe waar Ava nou op die stoep staan en wag om hom te verwelkom. ’n Klein, blonde feetjie met ’n blinkerhartjie op haar T-hemp, wat op en af spring toe sy hom sien.
Die soen was maar lomp. Pap. Vinnig. Daar is ’n koue kol op haar wang van die punt van sy neus.
“Ben!” roep sy. “Wag gou. Ben!”
“Wat?”
“Ek sou liewer dat ’n kalkoen binne-in my bly.”
“Oukei!” Hy neem haar antwoord nogal ernstig op.
“Ongetwyfeld.”
Dis maar net ’n vraag, dink sy. En sy kyk in haar truspieëltjie voordat sy wegtrek.
Translation commentary
Lerie Tredoux
Anne Enright perfectly captures the day-to-day conversations between a mother, Michelle, and her eight-year-old son, Ben, living in a demanding world. Similar to the aim of Enright’s short story, we (as a group of translation students working together) considered the role of the reader as an active participant in the reading process, which guided our translation process. Readers all over the world should be encouraged to ponder about the message of the short story, be stimulated to come to their own interpretations, but also be able to identify with the story. These were factors in the forefront of our minds while translating. Therefore, we wanted to create an Afrikaans translation that would encapsulate the world of the source text, the deeply connected meanings between life and death, and the seemingly casual symbolic conversation under which a sea (or rather a lake) of meanings lies.
We opted for a translation that remained relatively close to the source text in meaning and form (in Toury’s terms, this could be called an adequate translation), transporting the new South African readership to Ireland, while still reading idiomatically in Afrikaans. However, this does not mean that the translation process did not pose challenges. These challenges will be described and explained by using translation scholar Christiane Nord’s four categories of translation challenges, namely: intercultural and pragmatic challenges (which will be grouped together), interlingual challenges, and text-specific challenges.
INTERCULTURAL AND PRAGMATIC CHALLENGES
The first challenge we encountered was the phrase “would you rather be stung to death by fire ants”, and this was a complex one. Firstly, an Afrikaans translation equivalent for “fire ants” is not readily available, because this insect is not endemic to South Africa. Therefore, we chose to replace it with “rooimiere” (back translation: red ants). The second problem with this phrase is that the insects referred to as “rooimiere” do not actually sting, but rather pinch. This was changed appropriately, but whether you can actually be pinched to death by red ants is a question that remains in an eight-year-old boy’s mind. For the purposes of the game, however, this slight change should not cause problems.
Describing landscapes, objects or places was also tricky, either because we aren’t familiar with them or because it was difficult to find a translation equivalent in Afrikaans that would sound idiomatic and not forced, for example: “in the center of the green”, “turf grains” and “where the building bulged out”. We chose to use generalisation as a problem-solving solution when we translated “the green” into “daarvan” (back translation: thereof) to refer to the “open green space”. Similarly, the unknown concept of “turf grains” was described by using multiple translation and generalisation as “organiese materiaal in die slik” (back translation: organic material in the silt. Our revisers have changed it to the much more specific “watergras” (back translation: water-grass). Possible translation equivalents for the verb “bulged” (used to describe the building) were “uitbult” and “opswel”, but neither sounded idiomatic in Afrikaans. Therefore, we opted for the following description: “die vorm van ’n ronde vet toring aanneem” (back translation: take the shape of a round, fat turret).
INTERLINGUAL CHALLENGES
The overarching problem in this category was finding the appropriate Afrikaans equivalent that sounds idiomatic, suits the story’s register and tone, and conveys the same meaning. The eight-year-old Ben sitting in his “booster seat” was first translated to “karstoeltjie” (back translation: car seat). However, because a “karstoeltjie” is usually used for babies (and not eight-year-olds), we changed it to “spesiale stoeltjie” (back translation: special seat).
Similarly, in order to prevent meaning loss or change, the verbs in the phrases “looked at their wrists” and “checking her wrists” were carefully respectively translated as “staar” (back translation: stare) and “kyk” (back translation: look) to make the appropriate distinction. Another alternative for “checking” was “nagaan” (back translation: inspect, probe or examine), but it sounded too formal and unidiomatic. Furthermore, keeping the South African readership in mind, “app” was not translated to the Afrikaans equivalent “toepassing”, but rather copied as “app” – the term South Africans use in their day-to-day lives.
The syntactic differences between English and Afrikaans also posed some challenges. Because the demonstrative “daardie” (back translation: that) in “this was the way to the garden center, that was the way to the dog groomer’s” must be followed by a noun in Afrikaans, we had to perform a multiple translation, filling that gap after “that” with the Afrikaans noun “pad” (back translation: way).
The word “sy” in Afrikaans can both refer to the feminine “she” or the masculine possessive pronoun “his”. Therefore, to avoid the repetition of “sy” in the first two opening sentences of the story, we replaced “his voice” with “Ben se stem” (back translation: Ben’s voice).
The short questions and demands in the dialogue between Ben and his mother were also difficult to translate, for example: “Do you?”, “I really do” which were translated as “Regtig?”, “Ja, regtig.” Instead of a possible direct translation, which would be too close to the English idiom, “Doen jy?”, “Ek doen regtig.” We first inserted a response to the question, “ja” (back translation: yes), and then “regtig” to link with the question asked. In this way, it sounds like a typical, informal and natural conversation between a mother and her child. The same applies to “Which?” (direct translated: “Watter?”) where we rather opted for “Kies.” (back translation: choose), as it has the same meaning of having to choose between two options.
TEXT-SPECIFIC CHALLENGES
The story about the night swim, Scraggy Aggy’s and the conversation between Michelle and Ben form one integrated whole. However, the challenge is to convey the characters’ thoughts accurately as the situation jumps between time periods. In Afrikaans, narration is generally not in the past tense, but in instances such as the flashback to the evening at the lake, the use of the past tense was necessary. To be able to distinguish between the present and past tense was quite challenging. The fact that narratives in Afrikaans mostly use the historic present tense is unique to Afrikaans as a Germanic language and could be categorised as an interlingual challenge as well.
Contributing to the difficulty of the translation process was the formality and tone of the story. We constantly had to keep in mind that the conversation is taking place between a mother and her eight-year-old son. Expressions that sound natural in English often resulted in an unidiomatic, formal and/or unnatural Afrikaans translation, for example: “eying the payphone” would translate to “beloer die telefoonhokkie” and “connected” to “verbonde”. More informal and colloquial translation equivalents had to be chosen, such as “dophou” (back translation: keep an eye on) instead of “beloer”, not only to render an authentic conversation between the characters, but also to create an authentic translation. We executed a multiple translation strategy by translating “connected” to “te veel aan mekaar verbind” (back translation: too much connected to each other), thus avoiding the formal “verbonde”. To combat this challenge of formality, we asked ourselves the question: “Would an eight-year-old boy chatting with his mother actually use this word?” and vice versa.
A common feature of literary texts, and especially “Night Swim”, is the use of ambiguity and, in particular, double entendre. The play- on-words found in the source text, like “cold-skinned sex” which we interpreted to mean both physically and emotionally cold sex, was difficult to translate while preserving the double meaning Enright constructs by using these words. The translation, “koue seks” (back translation: cold sex) was our best bet.
Yet another important part of literature is the title, filled with meaning and giving the reader a glimpse of what can be expected from the story. At the hands of our translation strategy, we chose to stick closely to the title of the source text as we wanted to avoid inserting our own interpretation and subjective thoughts into an open-ended title that was intended to encourage the reader to think further. Therefore, the title of the Afrikaans translation is “Aandswem” (back translation: evening swim). In Afrikaans “aand” (evening) is a more idiomatic equivalent to “night” than the Afrikaans word “nag”.
Overall, the translation process was highly enriching and it challenged us to place ourselves not only in the shoes of the reader, but also in those of the author and her characters in order to create a product that mirrors the complexity of the source text, and the fluidity and interconnectedness between life and death.