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.”
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.”
“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?”
“Would you rather?”
“Not this again.”
“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.
“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?”
He would keep going until she was completely stuck.
“Would you rather drown in the dark or be strangled in the dark?”
He would keep going until she was actually dead.
“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?”
“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!”
“I would rather have the turkey live inside me.”
“O.K.!” He took her answer quite seriously.
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.
Bena je peljala k prijatelju in deloma je bila ta dodatna pot razlog za njeno nejevoljo; imela je toliko drugega dela. Vseeno ji je bila zasebnost avtomobila všeč, všeč ji je bil občutek Benovega glasu izza njene rame, ko je preverila vzvratno ogledalo in upočasnila v ovinku. Sedel je na otroškem sedežu – bil je majhen za svojih osem let – in skozi okno gledal na primestne ulice in parkirane avtomobile, medtem ko je ona uporabljala njegov mobilni telefon za navigacijo. Položila ga je ob prestavno ročico in ga naslonila na sivo plastično armaturo. Težko je razbrala majhno puščico pod katastrofo Benovega razbitega zaslona – ves čas ga je imel v rokah, razen kadar mu je padel. Zdaj je strmel ven v resnični svet, kot da bi bil rahlo presenečen, da je tam. »Ne maram Barryja McIntyra,« je rekel.
»Ne? Zakaj pa ne?«
V avtu sta imela najboljše pogovore. Če bi bila doma, bi rekel: »Ne vem,« ali: »Samo…« V avtu pa je govoril stvari, kot so: »Ampak fantje so sicer v redu. Fantje so res v redu.«
Spraševala se je, zakaj ni mogel govoriti, ko sta bila iz oči v oči. Zakaj so imele njene oči nanj tak učinek, da je skomignil z rameni in se zaprl vase?
»Saj si tudi ti fant.«
»Ja, vem,« je rekel.
Seveda je bila njegova mama, zato ga je vedno, ko ga je pogledala, preverila od glave do pet, da bi ga uredila ali občudovala. Čeprav se je trudila, da ne bi. Res se je trudila, da se ne bi spremenila v tisto vrsto ženske, ki govori: »Vzravnaj se,« ali »Pusti lase pri miru.«
S pogledom je ošinila vzvratno ogledalo in videla le del njegove glave. Njegovi razmršeni lasje so čez zimo potemneli. Čez leto ali dve bodo postali popolnoma rjavi.
»Samo sovražim košarko.«
Pred kratkim je uporabil besedo »peder« kot žaljivko. »Ta je tak peder,« je rekel pri večerji in njegovi mlajši sestrici je zastal dih.
»Seveda imaš rad košarko,« je toplo rekla. Ta laž.
»A Barry McIntyre igra košarko?«
V vzvratnem ogledalu je videla, kako se je njegova roka premaknila k skritemu obrazu.
»Pusti nos!« je rekla.
Težko se je zadržala. Bila sta tako začasno lepa, njena otroka. Bila sta tako popolna in potem nista bila več popolna. Preveč rada ju je imela, da bi ju pustila pri miru.
Vozila je naprej, medtem ko je on opazoval dublinsko predmestje: pomladna drevesa, vrstne hiše, sključena stara meščanka na sprehodu s psom. Aplikacija na telefonu jo je vodila po znani ulici, čeprav je bila sama pot neznana, sama se ne bi nikoli spomnila nanjo. Benovi prijateljici je bilo ime Ava in bila je novinka. Živela je na Trgu svete Klare, kar je bilo očitno nekje v bližini avtoceste. Vendar nista šla po avtocesti; šla sta po mreži majhnih ulic in po nekaterih se je že vozila – to je bila pot do vrtnega centra, tisto je bila pot do pasjega salona –, ne da bi vedela, da je možno preiti z ene na drugo, če si zavil na pravem mestu.
»Kaj bi raje?« je vprašal Ben in nato utihnil.
Če Benu nisi dal vedeti, da poslušaš, ni hotel nadaljevati.
»Kaj?« je končno rekla.
In, zdaj ko je vedel, da ima njeno pozornost, je rekel: »Kaj bi raje, spila skodelico lave ali se utopila v jezeru iz lave?«
»Kaj bi raje?«
»Ne spet to.«
»Lave ne moreš piti.«
»Naj bo jezero.«
»Kaj bi raje, da padeš s strehe ali da ti na glavo pade drevo?«
Obseden je bil z izbirami, sploh nemogočimi.
»Nič od tega. Raje bi, da se mi nič od tega ne zgodi.«
»Bi raje, da padeš s strehe,« je vztrajal, »ali da ti na glavo pade drevo?«
Morda je bil obseden s smrtjo samo. Ni se ji bilo mogoče izogniti, tako ali drugače.
»Streha,« je rekla.
»Kaj pa ti?«
»Ja, streha,« je priznal.
»Ni bila ravno tvoja najboljša,« je rekla.
Za trenutek je pomolčal in sprejel izziv.
»Kaj bi raje, da te do smrti popikajo rdeče ognjene mravlje ali da visiš obešena za prste na nogah z velikega žerjava, dokler ti ne poči glava?«
Vedno je nadaljeval, dokler se ji ni popolnoma zataknilo.
»Kaj bi raje, da utoneš v temi ali da se zadušiš v temi?«
Nadaljeval bo, dokler ne bo res mrtva.
»Ogromno temno jezero, polno jegulj.«
»Res ne. Nikakor ne. Sploh ne bi raje.«
Ko je vozila, jo je prevzel spomin na nočno plavanje mnogo let pred Benovim rojstvom. Bilo je v jezeru, na irskem podeželju; skupaj so se vračali iz puba, ni bilo lune, ni bilo seksa, se ji je dozdevalo – ne tisto jutro, ne noč prej, ko naj bi seksali v počitniški hiši –, in povlekla je obleko čez glavo, ko je v temi hodila proti jezeru. Seveda je bil v skupini moški, ki v bistvu ni bil moški, s katerim se je takrat videvala; bil je neki drugi, prepovedani moški. In ne eden ne drugi ni pozneje postal oče fantu, ki je zdaj sedel na zadnjem sedežu. Njena golota v zapuščenem gozdu sredi noči je bila izziv obema, vseeno kateri bi zagrabil. Vse to je bilo že davno.
Njena modra lanena obleka je bila ohlapna in praktična, njeno spodnje perilo verjetno precej modno in nepraktično v časih pred otroškimi sedeži in otroki, ki grejo prespat k prijateljem, in pred telefoni, ki ti povejo, kje moraš zaviti. Tudi njeno telo je bilo lepše, če bi se le takrat tega zavedala. In bila je pijana, zato je imel njen spomin na pot navzdol do majhnega pomola luknje, tako kot je imelo luknje njeno takratno izkustvo, čeprav se je upočasnilo in razjasnilo, ko je obleko spustila na še topel les in se ozrla na vodo. Na svileni gladini so plavala zrna ruše, ki so jezero obarvala rjavo, celo pri dnevni svetlobi. Zdaj, ob polnoči, je bilo temneje, kot bi si človek predstavljal, zato je bil ta občutek odprtega prostora pred njo kot šesti čut. Ko je pogledala navzdol, je opazila, da se črnina lesketa kot olje. Sedla je na rob pomola, da bi si odpela svoj imenitni modrček, in ga stresla z ramen. Moški glas ji je govoril, naj neha. Drugi moški ni rekel ničesar. Ženski glas je rekel: »Ne, resno, Michelle.« In bila je notri. Odrinila se je od lesenega roba in zdrsnila noter, pogoltnila jo je eksplozija vode, ki se je spremenila v tekočo tišino, nato pa se je prebila nazaj gor, kjer se je začel zrak. Iz črne vode v črni zrak.
Ko se je dvigala in obračala, je čutila, kako je alkohol nabrekal pod površino njene kože, in voda ni bila tako mrzla, kot je bila odrevenela. Ali pa je bila ona odrevenela. Voda je drsela mimo nje, ko si je utirala pot skoznjo, z dolgimi zamahi, ki so jo je peljali stran od drugih, četudi se je zdelo, da ostaja na istem mestu. Po njihovih glasovih je lahko sklepala, da se premika – po drobcih zvoka, ki jih je ujela, ko je plavala po gladini proti sredini jezera.
Če je bila sredina. Če je sploh plavala po gladini. Bilo je tako temno in mokro, da je bilo težko vedeti, ali ima oči zaprte ali odprte. Bala se je, da med plavanjem ni čisto vodoravna, da se nagiba navzdol, bala se je, da bo, ko bo dvignila obraz, da bi vdihnila, našla zgolj vodo. Klici z brega so bili zdaj bolj redkejši; bilo je, kot bi obupali nad njo, ko je krožila ali skušala zakrožiti nazaj proti njim, ker so ji okruški zvoka dajali občutek horizonta in bilo je pomembno, da tega ne izgubi. Morala je vedeti, katera smer je navzgor. Potiskala je vodo ob straneh telesa in čeprav se je zavijala vanjo, ko je plavala, ni bila prepričana, ali res zavija. Morala bi se samo za trenutek ustaviti in se zbrati, vendar se ni mogla ustaviti; ni se hotela ustaviti. Bilo je – to je bilo tisto skrivnostno, nenadno dejstvo – tako slastno. To, da ni vedela, katera smer je katera, ali kje so robovi. Razblinjala se je. Lahko bi v tistem trenutku utonila in bilo bi ji v užitek.
Zaznala je lesk svoje bele roke, žilav lesk, ki mu je sledila – njeno telo je imelo svoj kompas – dokler ni z brega zaslišala glas moškega, s katerim naj bi spala, in zagledala občasen sij cigarete moškega, s katerim naj ne bi spala (in iz nekega razloga tudi nikoli ni; morda ga je popolnoma preplašila). V plitvini je ostrina kamnov v mulju spodkopala njeno veliko dejanje, ko se je prebijala iz jezera proti očitkom in premraženemu seksu.
Naslednje jutro se je sunkovito zbudila, rahlo razvodenela izpolnitev prejšnje noči že pozabljena, zapravljena. Zgodila se je brez nje. Sedla je na rob postelje in vdihnila zrak v pljuča. Bila je živa. In to dejstvo si je vtisnila v um. Vcepila si ga je naravnost v središče svojega uma. Tega ne bo mogla storiti nikoli več. Stara je bila štiriindvajset let in odpovedala se je smrti. Pijana ali trezna, ponoči ne bo več nobenih jezer.
»Veš, Ben, nikoli ne smeš plavati ponoči,« je rekla zdaj, več kot dvajset let pozneje, ko je sedela v svojem hyundaiu hibridu. Pedal, zavora, ogledalo, sklopka.
»Kaj bi raje?« je vprašal Ben.
»Ne, resno, moraš mi obljubiti, da ne boš delal tega, nikoli. Ne v jezeru, ker v jezeru ni soli, ki bi te držala na površini, in predvsem ne v morju. Vedno moraš spoštovati morje. Večje je od tebe. Me slišiš? In nikoli, nikoli ne smeš plavati, če si pred tem pil alkohol, ali celo če so pili samo tvoji prijatelji. Če si najstnik in je prijatelj spil nekaj piv in ti reče: 'Pridi, zabavno bo!', kaj rečeš?«
»Kaj bi raje?« je potrpežljivo rekel Ben.
»Nič. Res nič ne bi raje. Na noben način ne bi raje umrla. Kaj je tvoj problem, Ben?«
Bila sta na ulici novozgrajenih dvojčkov, depresivno majhnih in neskončno enakih. Drobni vrtovi: jerebika, češnja, srebrna breza, okrasna vrba – grozljiv cof na palici. Ni vedela, kaj počne tukaj. Prihajala je nadnjo, celo tukaj. Prihajala je nad njene otroke – njena neumnost; sledila ji je iz vode. Nočno plavanje ni bilo konec te neumnosti; še nekaj časa po tem je bila v primežu smrti – mesece, leto. Ker seveda lahko zapustiš jezero, ne moreš pa zapustiti želje same in vseh njenih nemožnosti.
Vendar je nekaj postalo mogoče. Nekaj je postalo resnično. Nekaj se je razrešilo z obstojem otroka na zadnjem sedežu.
»Kaj bi raje,« je rekel Ben, » živela v puranu ali da puran živi v tebi?«
»Kaj bi raje,« je prizanesljivo ponovil, » živela v puranu ali da puran živi v tebi?«
»To je zelo dobro vprašanje,« je rekla.
»Kaj bi raje?«
»To je res odlično vprašanje. Najboljše do zdaj.« Stegnila se je proti radiu in ga prižgala v upanju, da ga bo zamotil.
»Sva prišla prav?« Aplikacija ji je sporočala, naj zavije desno. »Tukaj živi Ava?«
»Saj je tvoja prijateljica.«
»Ne, ni. Ni moja prijateljica. Samo zelo zelo tečna je.« Njegova roka je v pričakovanju počivala na torbi ob njem, ko je zavila skozi velika, odprta vrata v novo naselje.
»Je to to?«
Cesta svete Klare, Klarin dvor. Mali labirint je bil urejen okoli odprtega zelenega prostora, na sredini zelenega prostora pa je stala veličastna trinadstropna stavba.
Sama Sveta Klara.
Tam je bila. Ves ta čas. Živela je pet kilometrov stran od tu, že desetletje, in nikoli se ni zavedala, da je na cesti, mimo katere je vozila tako pogosto, ko je bila namenjena kam drugam.
Sem jo je pred skoraj dvajsetimi leti pripeljal taksi, ko so bili vse naokrog še zeleni travniki. Bilo jo je neizmerno strah, da bo voznik iz naslova razbral, da je nora, čeprav ni bila zares nora; bila je samo precej močno strta. Prepričana je bila, da bo vedel, da v njegovem taksiju sedi strto človeško bitje, da se bo obrnil in se ji posmehnil, ko bosta zapeljala skozi vrata ali ko bosta vozila po cesti mimo urejenih vrtov do te velike hiše, te ustanove.
Sestre svete Klare in svete Neže. Zasebni sanatorij.
»Neža maneža«, kot so ga včasih imenovali. Smetnjak. V sinov telefon je vtipkala naslov in niti pomislila ni na to.
»Kaj bi raje?« je rekel Ben.
Zato se je torej spomnila na jezero.
Zelo čudno je bilo gledati to stavbo od zunaj. Svoj čas v njej je preživela v majhni sobi in zunanjost je videla mogoče dvakrat: prvič poševno, ko je hodila po stopnicah, in morda še enkrat s pogledom nazaj, ko jo je oče prišel iskat. Nikoli ni šla na vrtove, ki so bili zdaj polni ličnih novih hiš; mogoče ji niti niso dovolili. Ali pa, kar je bolj verjetno, ji niso priskrbeli oblačil. Veliko je spala ali nepremično ležala v svoji postelji, ki je spominjala na bolnišnično. Spominjala se je, da je stala ob oknu – morda je bilo to celo prav tisto okno, v tretjem nadstropju, kjer se je stavba izbočila v debel, okrogel stolpič. Vedela je, da je v stolpu stopnišče in da je z vrha teh stopnic gledala ven, kot bi to morda počela ženska v pravljici – čeprav ni bila v pravljici, bila je v megli mogadona, poleg vse druge svinjarije, ki jo je ubogljivo pogoltnila dvakrat na dan, medtem ko se je spraševala, če bo še kdaj spet srala. Nikomur ni bilo mar za to. Namesto tega jim je bilo mar za tvoja čustva. Čeprav da »jim je bilo mar«, morda ni pravi izraz. Tvoja čustva so opazovali.
»Mati,« je rekel Ben – beseda, ki jo je uporabil samo takrat, ko je bil zares nejevoljen. Pozabila je reči: »Kaj?«.
»Kaj?« je rekla.
»Bi raje živela v puranu?«
»Sva prišla prav?« je vprašala. »Tukaj živi?«
Upočasnila je in se ustavila sredi zapuščene ulice. Par majhnih otrok, eden od njiju še malček, se je igral na širokih granitnih stopnicah, ki so vodile do vhodnih vrat stavbe, ki je bila nekoč Neža maneža. Stavbo so spremenili v stanovanja – verjetno so stala celo premoženje. Ob pogledu na pročelje so se ji začeli vračati še drugi spomini: nekakšno preddverje, kjer se je vpisala. Velika dnevna soba za nune, kjer je njen oče vstal iz rožastega naslonjača, ko je prišla skozi vrata, pripravljena, da se vrne domov. To je bila soba z visokim stropom na levi, kjer je mati otrok odmaknila zaveso in ju tako imela na očeh, da ne bi odšla predaleč.
Nekje v stavbi je bila zanemarjena dnevna soba, kamor so ljudje hodili kadit – spraševala se je, kje je to. Vse so pokadile dvajset cigaret dnevno, vse strte dame iz predmestja s svojimi tresočimi rokami in lepimi jutranjimi haljami. Sedele so v tej smrdeči sobi s fotelji, prevlečenimi z vinilom, in si ogledovale zapestja. Spraševala se je, kdo v tem prostoru živi zdaj. Nekdo zaposlen in mlad. Nekdo, ki je na okno, ki je bilo včasih zaklenjeno, postavil orhideje. Ta oseba ne kadi. Ta oseba iz prijetnega zasebnega stanovanja stopi na javni hodnik, kjer so včasih, pred toliko leti postopali žalostni ljudje. Jokali so ali pa niso jokali, molčali so in pogledovali proti javnemu telefonu.
»Številka 74 je.« V sinovem tonu je bilo čutiti brezmejen prezir in opazila je, da se ni premaknila, da je zastala.
Postalo ji je jasno, da so otroka stopnice zadrževale. Ostala sta na vrhu in poganjala tricikel po ravni površini. Nista se približala robu.
Zadnjih osem let svojega življenja je skrbela za varnost majhnih otrok.
Avto se je nežno pomikal naprej, medtem ko je Ben prebiral številke na hišah, ki so gledale na zelenico: 67, 69, 71.
»Kje so soda števila?« je vprašala, ko sta počasi obkrožila zadnjo stran stavbe, kot bi vozila v past. Tako se je počutila v življenju, tik preden se je razbilo – vse je bilo preveč povezano. In zdaj se je spet dogajalo: nehoteno potovanje, neposrečene odločitve, misel, da njen sin ve, seveda ve, lahko jo je zavohal: slankasto vodo jezera.
Zagledala je okno dnevne sobe v drugem nadstropju in še vedno je bila tam zgoraj in si pregledovala zapestja. Kadila in kadila. Več tednov strmela v madež na steni. Ne da bi vedela za Bena. Ne da bi vedela za hčer. Nista se še zgodila v njenem telesu; nista se še rodila.
»Tam je! Štiriinsedemdeset, štiriinsedemdeset!«
Ustavila je avto, potegnila ročno zavoro in se zasukala na sedežu, da bi pogledala svojega sina, ki si je na zadnjem sedežu odpenjal varnostni pas. Ben je dvignil pogled proti njej in bil je prelep. Njegovi lasje so potrebovali glavnik in pod nosom se mu je nekaj svetlikalo, ampak bil je tako zelo pristen. Pogledal jo je izpod dolgih trepalnic, kot da jo pozna že dolgo, in naenkrat ni bila več v zgradbi. Zdaj je bila tukaj, zunaj, z njim.
»Priden bodi,« je rekla, ko je zgrabil torbo, in že ga ni bilo več. Za fanta, ki ne mara deklet, je nenavadno hitro prišel do Avinih vhodnih vrat.
»Jutri te poberem ob enajstih.«
Takrat je pritekel nazaj. Za trenutek je pomislila, da jo je hotel poljubiti v slovo, vendar je zgolj iskal svoj telefon. Podala mu ga je skozi okno, nato pa je ven hudomušno pomolila še glavo.
»Mnnnnnmm,« je rekla in našobila ustnice. In res jo je poljubil, naglo, preden je stekel nazaj k hiši, kjer je Ava zdaj stala na verandi, da bi ga pozdravila. Majhna svetlolasa palčica z bleščečim srčkom na majici, ki je ob pogledu nanj živahno poskakovala.
Poljub je bil neroden. Mesnat. Hiter. Na njenih licih je ostala mrzla sled, ki jo je pustil vrh njegovega nosu.
»Ben!« je zavpila. »Počakaj. Ben!«
»Raje bi, da bi puran živel v meni.«
»Okej!« Odgovor je vzel skrajno resno.
Samo vprašanje je, si je mislila. In preverila vzvratno ogledalo, preden je speljala.
Tajda Liplin Šerbetar
The translation of this short story was slightly challenging (just enough to make it interesting) and it often required creative solutions. Overall, I found the writing style very communicative and the register not very high, which I occasionally struggled with, but it got easier as the story progressed. There was also quite a lot of dialogue, which was fun to translate, particularly in terms of trying to find the right balance between formal and informal language and the right tone for a child’s speech. For example, the part where he says I like boys – in Slovene, the direct translation would be either rad imam fante or všeč so mi fantje, but neither of those expressions would be commonly used by a Slovene child (especially a boy) as they bring out a much more emotional note compared to the same phrase in English. In the end I chose fantje so v redu, which translates to boys are okay or boys are cool, which is more something a young boy would more likely say about his friends.
The most obvious problem that occurred while translating was the game Ben likes to play with his mother. The game consists of the question would you rather. This game is common in the English-speaking world, but we have no such game in Slovenia. The omission of what in the question would you rather is grammatically problematic for translating this into Slovene, so I decided to add it in my translation, which then became kaj bi raje.
Another thing I struggled with was the use of the word gay. The text says that Ben used it as an insult, saying that's so gay. In Slovene, gay is translated as gej, however not in the sense of an insult (gej is considered a politically correct word and so people rarely use it as an insult). We have another word for this, peder, which is closer to the English word faggot – the register therefore being much lower than it is in the original text. I found this change of register problematic, but in the end I decided to use it anyway, because Slovene kids would use peder (and never gej) as an insult. I also changed it from an adjective to a noun; the Slovene adjective would be pedersko and that again would not be something a child would likely use.
An interesting challenge was the rhyme Scraggy Aggy's as the nickname of the mental institution. Aggy derives from St. Agnes, which translates to sv. Neža in Slovene. I tried to find a word that rhymes, because in this case the sound of the phrase seems more important than the meaning itself. I found the rhyme maneža, which I think works well – it means menagerie, a word that could easily be used as a derogatory name for a mental institution.
Lastly, I struggled a little with translating geographic names, which is an ever-occurring problem in translation. In this case, the text had three different names for what seems to be more or less the same place: St. Clare Crescent, St. Clare Close and St. Clare Court. The words crescent and close have no accurate translation in Slovene, therefore I chose trg (square) and cesta (road).
To sum up, the translation posed some interesting challenges and gave many opportunities for creative solutions, which made the process quite enjoyable.