Pubblichiamo alcuni stralci in traduzione
inglese del romanzo THE MARK - IL BERSAGLIO dell'autore Macedone Blaze Minevski.
Pubblicato nel 2007 a Skopje e poi in Serbia, Russia ed prossimamente in
Armenia, è stato nominato miglior romanzo dell'anno 2007.
Storia dall'impianto solo apparentemente
statico è un riflessione sul senso della vita, la religione e la letteratura.
Sulle opposte rive di un fiume durante la guerra Balcanica due cecchini si
fronteggiano e si tengono l'un l'altro sotto tiro. L'io narrante si rivolge con
quello che in realtà è un lungo monologo mentale al suo nemico, che è l'opposto
di ciò che lui. Riconosce infatti nel suo mirino il volto di una donna,
mussulmana a cui lui dà il nome fittizio della protagonista di un'antica
ballata, Doruntina. Le narra così, con la consapevolezza che il primo a sparare
sarà il primo a uccidere, la propria vita e i propri amori: tre donne che
si sovrappongono nella sua memoria a tre figure della letteratura mondiale:
Anna Karenina, Natasha Rostova e Madame Bovary. Con uno stile caratterizzato
dall'uso di figure retoriche e stilemi tipici poesia il romanzo riflette
sull'assurdità della guerra e pone già dalle prime pagine un interrogativo
quanto mai attuale: i due protagonisti sono l'uno contro l'altro in un paesaggio
primaverile, sulle rive di un fiume coperte di fiori e farfalle, uno squarcio
di Paradiso: ma quale paradiso? Quello cristiano o quello musulmano? E se è il
medesimo perché i due si fronteggiano e di combattono come fa l'io-narrante con
i suoi amici di un tempo?
Alle molte domande sollevate dal romanzo
attraverso flashback e citazioni dai tre romanzi le cui eroine si sostituiscono
alle donne amate dal protagonista narrante, risponde il secco suono di uno
sparo.
Segue un'intervista dell'autore a Dalkey Archive Press
BLAZE MINEVKSI - THE MARK
The sun is standing over the ruined
fortress, as I turn my sniper rifle across the river, and there I see her;
she’s also looking straight at me; she had me in her sight long before I
discovered her. She could’ve killed me any time she wanted, I think, gasping
for air in the grass that rises in front of me like murky water; my heart skips
inside my camouflage shirt, though I think it’s a grasshopper. I see her in my
optical sight, clear as a prom picture; she’s watching me too. She has a big
blue eye, like the sky over the fortress; I even see the thin layer of moisture
in the corner of her eye, as I realise that she has been looking at me for a
while without blinking. When I take aim, I close my left eye; she keeps hers
open, even though she can’t see me with it, she’s too far away. I see her
blonde hair, which falls away into the primroses, as if there is no end in
sight. I can’t tell where it ends and where they begin:
- You could have killed me before I
could find you in the primroses, I say, the primroses, I tell you, and you
blink with your eye as if to confirm, as if you are reading my lips. I can see
that you are holding your finger on the trigger, I say, your finger, I tell
you, just as I am holding mine now; I’m sure you can hit me just as easily as I
could strike you. I know that you can see me as if I’m right there in front of
you, while the sun glimmers over the ruined fortress and wonders in
disbelief. Time also passes through our
eyes as something alien, as something past, I say, past, I tell you, and you
are even smirking, looking straight through my long vowels. I speak softly, of
course, or maybe I’m just opening my mouth, watching how the left corner of
your lips is slightly trembling, as if you understand, as if you feel sorry for
me: I will call you Doruntina, I say, while you look at me through your optical
sight and can read your name from the movement of my lips. Your hair is full of
yellow petals, as if primroses are growing from you and everywhere around you,
even in the air, it seems to me; I’ll call you Doruntina, I repeat a little bit
louder, letter by letter, while you smile again, blinking with your left eye,
this means you agree, I say, you agree, I tell you. Only now do I hear the
babble of the stream passing down by me,
and also of the stream that springs from the fortress and flows by you
on its way to the same place in the river between us, beneath us. Listening to the babble, suddenly, as if in a
dream, I become a story telling itself, , because life, I say, life, I tell
you is that which is told,.
A story, I say, a story, I tell you, and I can see
that you are following me, reading from my lips, and there’s the smile again,
while your finger is still pressed on the trigger, just in case: how fast time
flies, Doruntina, I say, time, I tell you, and yet nothing changes. If I go
down my stream to get to you, your people will get me; if you go down your
stream to get to me, my people will get you, I say, and you blink with your
left eye, this means you agree. You already know everything, Doruntina, while
the river beneath us is flowing unstoppably, that same river, the river that
also once took her away like a secret. When I turned around, I could only see
her hat skipping on the waves and giggling. The hat was giggling, while the
river flowed unstoppably, just like now
Watching you smile sadly with the left corner of your
mouth, I think of suggesting that we should wait for the night and then go
together down to the river, I say, the river, I tell you, but all of a sudden I
feel a strong kick to the heel of my boot, I say, the boot, I tell you, and
someone lies down next to me, cursing right behind this cotton thistle,
Doruntina You can see now, I say, see, I tell you, that without moving, just
with the corner of my left eye, I glimpse the binoculars and the crooked nose
of Hothead Hawk.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks.
“Shoot!”
Now, what more can I tell you,
Doruntina; when I found you in the primroses, I found my life; I say my life,
not my death, though it may sound silly. What I want to say is that before I
was brought here, to the warzone, the worst had already happened. A great
tragedy had happened, something that entirely ruined my career and life, if you
could even call it a life. My first and only novel, which I had published right
after returning from Iowa, I say, a novel, I tell you, which was loudly hailed
as a masterpiece and immediately translated in all neighbouring countries, all
of a sudden came crashing down, careened into the abyss, disappeared together
with me, Doruntina. All that was left was my name in crimson letters. Later, if
I have time, and time is you, I will tell you what happened, what faith befell
me. I can see you smiling, see that you read my lips and understand me. I see
your powerful sniper rifle in the primroses; it shimmers, laid in your fair
hand; it’s resting peacefully on your forearm, tender and slim as a gladiolus.
Yet I know that the moment the red spot of the laser sight falls on its target,
like a mark on the forehead, then it’s all over, even though the victim may be
a whole mile away from you and, of course, completely unaware that he’s sitting
in front of you like a photo from a yearbook. You have a powerful sniper sight,
Doruntina. I see, I say, I see, I tell you, and I know. I’m sure it’s a Heckler
& Koch SG-1, an immaculate killing machine; you just gently pull the
trigger and the bullet knows what to do. But you are not pulling the trigger …
and still not pulling it, not pulling it at all … Why, Doruntina, what are you
waiting for? I ask, opening for a moment my left eye which you see, as you can
see; I open mine and you blink a few times with yours and breathe out a sigh
into the primroses: the yellow petals shudder as if standing in the rain, as
butterflies excited in flight. Behind you, left of the fortress and just above
the ruined church of Saint George the Forerunner, brashly towers the minaret of
the mosque. Right now I listen, as do you, to the muezzin kneeling in the
gallery calling to prayer all those not in the trenches. The imam, I say, the
imam, I tell you, or maybe it’s just a loudspeaker. It’s Friday, and noon at
that, probably. I guess that very soon all those not staying in the trenches
will enter the mosque; they will line up before that semicircular recess in the
front wall that everyone has to face, because this is the only way they could
be turned towards Mecca, to start murmuring with open palms, touching their
ears with their thumbs. They’ll whisper “Allahu Akbar”, if I’m not mistaken
they’ll recite their prayers, I say, and then they’ll bow. God is the greatest,
but life is all we’ve got and losing it is the greatest loss for any man.
Except for me, of course.
Professor Steve Liptoff from the
International Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City wanted us to study all religions
in order to write a short story on heaven and hell. I can admit, right here and
now, that I really like your heaven, and you already know that it is a garden
watered by numerous rivers, maybe just like the one that we can see here, if
only for a moment we looked down into the bottom of the gorge. But we can’t,
because we mustn’t lose our sights, even though both my and your streams flow
into the same river, Doruntina, while all around us grow luscious fruits and
flowers, just like in heaven. Is this the heaven dreamt of by those with long
beards, who go to meet death by our snipers, fighter planes and artillery with
joy? Under the shades in paradise, people drink the wine that was forbidden to
them on earth: wine that doesn’t intoxicate. The cups are served to them by
handsome boys, while seductive black-eyed maidens tend to their every pleasure,
I say, pleasure, I tell you, and I can see you smiling while your hair is
flickering on your shoulders, like a sly breeze drifting along your tight body.
I once again open my left eye, I say, eye, I tell you
, and for a second I can see how far away you are when I see you with the one
eye, and yet how close you are when I see you with the other. I quickly shut
it, frightened by the great distance, and now once again I see you lying in the
primroses with the sniper rifle turned towards me. Yes, Doruntina, it’s the
newest Heckler, no doubt about it, Heckler, I tell you! I know each part by
heart; even in primary school I was obsessed and collected any and all
information about guns published in newspapers and weapons periodicals, so much
so that I became a member of the shooting club “Phalanx”. I would carve flowers
on the target with a sniper rifle. I remember that, with an Italian Beretta, I
could carve a small primrose with six bullets at a distance of six hundred
metres. Smelling like primroses, at that. A sight to behold. I would look at it
through my scope, holding my breath. Hothead Hawk, my captain, also knows how
to do this; he was a champion shooter with a small calibre rifle. Yes, a
Heckler, Doruntina, a Heckler! Unlike the scope of my Black Arrow, which can
magnify you eightfold in my eyes, you can see me magnified tenfold. You can
poke me in the eye; you can see that I haven’t shaved for three days; you can
see that my nose is swollen like a tomato, either from mosquito or spider
bites, doesn’t matter; you can even see the mark in between my brows, I say,
mark, I tell you, a scar left from the time when I was all alone and wanted to be
marked and punished to catch up with my beloved ones in heaven. I failed to
join them in heaven, but I managed to grasp that heaven exists only as a means
to understanding life on earth.
Suddenly, the little butterfly that had been supping
on the dew of the primroses around you flew through the thistle. This means I’m
probably still alive, I tell myself. The bearded man stood up and, waving his
machine gun in my direction, sank into the hazelnut grove; he resurfaced the
next moment at the eastern wall of the fortress; there is obviously a tunnel
leading from the left bank of the river to the interior of the ruins, and
ending in the mosque. So, Hothead Hawk has been right all along when he said
that you defend the bank with only few snipers, who are constantly being
substituted without any noticeable movement on the front line: “They are tying
flashlights on dogs at night, and you numbnuts, for fuck’s sake, start shooting
at ’em and reveal your positions; that’s why they’re killing you like flies,”
he would say, standing over the monument of the unknown hero. I can hear his
voice now down in the trench, while you exhale, Doruntina, your sad smile
appearing once again in the left corner of your mouth. And it’s such a
beautiful day, I say, a beautiful day, I tell you. I hear the babble of the
streams, mine and yours; they are cheerfully flowing down beneath my and your
trench; if we look down, we’ll see them embrace under the rocks, at the bottom
of the gorge. Listen to them kissing, I say, kissing, I tell you, despite
everything and despite all; listen to them running like lovers under the
willows, to the sea, to the oceans, doesn’t matter, just as long as it is far
away from here. Watching you through my scope, my body is banging and burrowing
into the ground beneath me, trembling and caving in, my shivers are running
around like ants, restlessly rushing in and out of my chest; I don’t know if
I’m alive anymore or just narrating as if I’m alive. Still, thank you for this
quiet sunset, for the mountain rising behind you, and for the fortress, too;
for the sky, for the river, for the hazelnut with the slumping bough like an
umbrella, for the butterfly and the primroses with the golden petals and the
smell of honey coming across the river in waves with your smile, landing here,
Doruntina, I say, here, I tell you, before me and this thistle shaking like a
coward with fear. If I am alive, I could make primrose tea; it settles the
nerves and heart; it’s great for insomnia. Just imagine a beautiful winter; a small
cottage standing in the middle of an empty field, while outside a curious,
brooding snow falls. The steam is rising from the tea before us, we are just
sitting in silence and watching each other; we live without sensing that we
live; the shadows of the falling snowflakes are caressing our faces; you are
transparent like the steam ascending from the cup; I don’t dare touch you,
because you might disappear if I do. Even though I don’t see this, I have a
feeling that a blond-haired man is peering through the window, with a mean
goatee that makes him look like a Yankee from the Lincoln era. The snow keeps
falling outside; the same brooding snow; the snow falls and all enemies show
their own tracks, Doruntina, this thought comes to my mind, I say, their tracks,
I tell you, as I gaze at your face flickering above the table. I believe that
we are still in love, because that is what the ground beneath us, the sky above
our heads, the trees, the snow and that man peering through the window want: I
don’t want to have your body; I want your face, which will offer me your body
as proof of your love, I think of telling you, but the wolves circling around
the house suddenly let out a terrible howl and your face starts to disappear
through the beams of the roof. I open the window and I can see a trace in the
snow of a face of a man with a mean goatee: Every man ends up in his own
forgotten story, I say to myself, a story, I tell myself, as I watch how the
snow slowly fills the imprint of the face in the snow. I have your face in the
cup; you have my face on the window. We live, without sensing life. I see that
you understand me, yet I don’t know what I wanted to say; all I know is that
these are confusing times; reality is a memory, memory is reality; the river
doesn’t exist in our optical sights, but we share the same heaven and the same
hell, because both heaven and hell are states of mind, not physical locations.
We live in the memories of the dead, that’s why we don’t sense that we live.
Slowly, thus, we evaporate in thin air together with the tea.
Then, at the end, we become just a
small fragrant cloud over Iowa.
© Blaze Minevki
Riproduzione vietata. Per tutti i diritti contattare Tempi Irregolari.
Part
of the interview for Dalkey Archive Press, 2011
Dalkey Archive Press: Do you see your work as fitting into the
traditions of European fiction, or indeed any national or regional tradition?
MINEVSKI: I can say that Macedonian fiction, especially the novel, never had time
to follow any European, national, nor regional tradition. Why? Because the
first Macedonian novel was written only 60 years ago, therefore we did not have
centuries of time for romanticism, realism, modernism and so on. So, in my
opinion Macedonian fiction is an alchemic fiction that does not recognize
tradition due to not having time. We mix, as in alchemic caldron, romanticism
with modernism and postmodernism, fiction with reality, amazing with bizarre,
fantasy with reality, tale with history, death with life… At the same time
Macedonians have rich narrative tradition, folklore, people’s songs and tales
that date back at least ten centuries in time. We have the first short story on
the Balkans about the stork man, which has discovered the magic realism long
time ago, that actually is our unique space of collective memory and creative
hope. That why here nobody is amazed if a men turns into stork, because we know
that there is a wonder water that will turn him back into man, if he deserves
it of course. In our folk tales dead are never dead enough to be gone forever,
not to be able to fight again and again, while the donkeys fly like a
helicopters long time before the helicopters are invented or the flying carpet
over Macondo is created. You can check actually, that in the cult
Latin-American novel ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’
the alchemist Melquiades comes from Macedonia. Marquez
probably knew about the alchemic core of Macedonia, which is the core of
Macedonian fiction. Therefore, my novels and short stories, representing an
echo of the story about our stork men, know the meaning of south and north, of
west and east, which is maybe enough for a good flight without prejudice.
Dalkey Archive Press: Are there any exciting trends, movement, or schools
in contemporary Macedonian fiction? Who do you feel are the overlooked
contemporary authors writing in Macedonia who should be more widely read and
translated?
MINEVSKI: In my opinion all of the Macedonian fiction is overlooked. It is obscure
compared to the world’s literature movements, but at least ten contemporary
Macedonian writers deserve international presentation. I can think of around
twenty great novels that unfortunately are closed in the cage of our small
language space, not having the opportunity to communicate with the rest of the
world. On the other hand the publishing capacity in Macedonia is small, around
500 copies for edition, which is even less than some hand written copies in the
middle century. If the best Macedonian writers would have the opportunity to
reach the readers around the world, Macedonian fiction will leave the darkness
and the quietness of its own cage. Macedonian fiction deserves to be revealed,
not only for itself, but for the good of the world’s fiction at all.
Dalkey Archive Press:
Who are the contemporary
European writers from other countries that are writing compelling fiction?
MINEVSKI: Unfortunately, for the readers compelling fiction become writers with
short courses in creative writing and eager for fame. I’m talking about the so
called ‘bestsellers’, that in the past could only be found as paper romances in
the kiosks, but nowadays are entering the bookstores as masterpieces of the
literature. In this situation of blistering marketing assault, the real
literature and the real worth literature pieces have to find the side
entrances. Considering the superior European fiction, starting for example with
great Salman Rushdie and Umberto Eco, to Hanif Kureishi,
Misel Uelbek and Orhan Pamuk, their
translations in Macedonian language usually come very late so we’re forced to
read them either in original or translations in other languages.
Dalkey Archive Press: Are there enough publishing outlets in Macedonia
for contemporary fiction? Is there a market for literary fiction in Macedonia?
MINEVSKI: There are enough publishers, even too much, but lack quality editions.
After the collapse of the big national publishing houses, they were replaced by
many small publishers who seem to care only for the donations from the Ministry
of culture. They take the money, print certain number of copies paid by the
state, and that’s it. They don’t take care of the market, the bookstores and
the readers. One of these publishers earns ten times more than the authors for
their novels. On the other hand, the fact is that Macedonian book cannot
compete on the market, so for now in my country there isn’t one strictly
professional writer, no writer who lives from his writing.
Dalkey Archive Press :
Do you want your work to be
translated? Why or why not?
MINEVSKI: I believe that there isn’t any writer, especially
writer who writes in a small language, who doesn’t want his work to be
translated. The writer desires reader who doesn’t know him. The writer doesn’t
write his letter knowing the address where it will be sent. The writer sends
his creation without an address, knowing that one day it will reach the reader
he desired. Everything that’s good should be good for everybody. Indeed, if man
as god’s creation is no good, then the mistake is not only in the creation.
Dalkey Archive Press: Given a choice, would you prefer a faithful,
literal translation of your work or an interpretive re-imagining of it? Why?
MINEVSKI: I prefer good translation, meaning translation that will be
faithful to the words and to the idea also. I would choose translation that
respects the author, but does not disgrace the translator too. Because the
author can always make reference to the original, but the translator to his own
translation only.