Febre de Carrer

Street fever is a collection of eight stories by the Catalan author Mercé Ibarz about individuals who observe their present lives though the prism of the past. From a childlike view of the world that belies a more sophisticated understanding of human nature to a history of the defiant working class construction of a city neighbourhood, she constructs an understanding of the present through a transverse vision of layers of history.

Each story portrays some kind of transformation of the character as they look back on their lives to find meaning. Each of them feels a distance between their selves (and in some cases within themselves) and the rest of the world. They feel they must show themselves in some way. All of them make some kind of journey (on foot, bus, car, train) that activates their memories.

Una modesta proposició (A modest proposal) is a story about three women, Catalan, Argentinean and Serbian, who decide to drive to the beach outside the city one day. They are forced to divert from the usual route because of roadworks, and while they drive around getting lost, the reminisces of each one takes them on a different journey into their pasts. They end the day by celebrating the common story they now share.

Ibarz’s characters are protective and defensive about their own internal spaces but at the same time yearn to be part of the city they inhabit. The weight of history bears heavily on them, and they sift through it in order to find their place in the present. Ibarz herself has spoken of that “…uncomfortable feeling that comes from the sensation that history moves so quickly that the past doesn’t exist”.

El Carrer (The street) brings us back to the Barcelona of the 1960s when newly arrived immigrants, most of them tradesmen, built their own houses from leftover materials. They created their own neighbourhood at the foot of the mountain, at the time outside the boundary of the city. The narrator in the story visits one of their descendants, still living on the same street of little houses, each one built in their own style over time. The woman decides it is her job to educate her visitor about the working class pride of the neighbourhood, and they leave the city on a day trip to visit another row of houses, built in the same manner on the beachfront in a little town in the south, where those same people would go to spend their weekends in the summer. These immigrants built their communities from nothing outside official city boundaries, but the neighbourhoods are now part of the city’s history. References to cinema, history and culture are all discussed, and the woman succeeds in highlighting the narrator’s narrow sense of about what it means to be Catalan.

Dinar a la boqueria (Lunch at la boqueria) is a glimpse of an intense relationship between mother and son that suddenly brings us back to the Catalan exiles at Roissy-en-Brie after the Spanish Civil War. The very personal story of a couple’s journey to deliver a print by Picasso moves from intimate details of their marriage (and her relationship with her son) to the wider setting of exiled artists at the time a fascist force controlled the country.

It is a book about a present that can only be known through the past, and how a small detail of ordinary life opens up a world of past lives and histories. The isolation of the individual and their place in the world is addressed by situating them somewhere: the sense of alienation is usually resolved through the stories of other people. Sharing our memories creates a space for common past, a reference from where to see the present. It is also a vivid portrait of Barcelona the city as it is today, and the tension between the past and present.

An bhfuil cead agam

Officially ‘bilingual’, I am more of a monolingual speaker of an English that lives with the ghost of another language peering over its shoulder. While Ireland has two official languages and Irish is a compulsory subject in schools, less than 2 percent of the population uses the language daily. An bhfuil cead agam? (Do I have permission?) is a phrase most of the population knows because it is used to ask the teacher’s permission in primary school. For most of us, on a conscious level Irish brings us back to the classroom where it was another subject to learn. However, there are unconscious traces of the language in our everyday speech and perception of the world.

Irish-English is the palimpsest of the most widely spoken language in the world placed over the ancient, pre-Latinate tongue of a small community with little or no capacity for the abstract. English easily accommodates the use of the conceptual: whereas the verb ‘esperar’ in Spanish would be used for the vastly different ideas of ‘to wait, to expect or to hope’. In Irish, the phrase for the same notion would be ‘tá súil agam’ ‘I have an eye’ which would be only way to describe the idea that you were looking towards the future – your eye was physically placed in a different place. It makes for interesting translations and descriptions that Irish-English speakers use daily.

There are studies about the influence of Irish on English spoken in Ireland, about grammar, syntax, and pronunciation, but technical study can not address the sense of hearing or using a language that is ‘ours’ but not really spoken by us. We use certain words in Irish, and it is considered an affectionate gesture to call a person by the Irish version of their name (James becomes Séamus, David becomes Dáithi, etc.) Calling a person with an Irish name by the English version is not the same, however – it creates an officious distance. There are no such words as ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in Irish, which also affects the speech of the Irish native: ‘Are you going? I am. Did you? I did. Was she? She was. It may seem like a simple substitute for the affirmative or negative response to the question, but it also a way of intensifying the meaning.

Sometimes this feeling of a thin membrane that separates the two languages (and the two universes) stretches very thin and becomes almost transparent. There is a feeling of proximity when hearing some words in Irish: you are reminded of your place in the world. Then a vast expanse opens up again as you realise you understand very little, and you are a small child again, asking the teacher for permission.

A soft day

Looking out on what is known as ‘a soft day’ in Ireland, with its constant light misty rain is the perpetual Sunday afternoon sensation of lockdown. My desk is by the window and I see the charcoal drawn poplars against a woolly grey sky, full of little black birds. A soft day is the ultimate test of your immediate state of well-being, the supreme challenge to the mind that feels the pressure to be productive. There is nothing you can do about a soft day. You just have to accept it as it is and any attempt to imprint your consciousness on it just leads to frustration. It is what it is and while it might not be very beautiful, it is a gentle way of instructing us in the ancient art of meditation. There is a still windless silence under a film of rain that is almost imperceptible, but at the same time weighs more than water. On an island where the weather traditionally changes every twenty minutes, the soft day settles down on the land from dawn to dark, slowly weighing the earth down with more and more water.

What’s in a name?

The first job was to come up with a name: no easy task indeed. A way to describe myself clearly that would not hinder my chances of getting a job. Was I ‘the curious translator’? I suppose I was, but then so were many other people. I was also amused, obsessed, vigilant, inquisitive, pedantic, eager, considerate, intrigued, bold, distracted, infatuated…

Pernickety felt about right, but it left out the awe I feel when I come across a beautiful piece of writing (and again with a beautiful translation) and the avid curiosity about the meaning of words. And then scribe is a nice sounding word which lends itself to images of great concentration and diligence, but it also suggests the art of making copies, which is not really an apt description of my intentions.

But while translation is not merely reproducing a text, there is a ghostly quality about the craft: it should not attract attention to its own form. The phantom scribbler? The two words aren’t very compatible with each other and don’t roll off the tongue like thepernicketyscribe. It sounds a little more like a very studious Marvel character.

Finally, to borrow a notion from Emily Dickinson, who sent warm wishes to a friend hoping that “your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious,” I thought that the spacious reverie might be a good title for the type of blog I was thinking of.

I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious,” Emily Dickinson