C
This piece is an excerpt from Until the Victim Becomes our Own, written by Dimitris Lyacos and translated into English by Andrew Barrett.
A day blotted out. And, if it ever really existed, it was already blotted out from the head, and the head slumped over the knees and the knees tilted down alongside the alien body, as sleep kept on flowing inside it. And right at that moment, when the body had finally found a way to stay still, never mind on what kind of bed, a thought ran through it again. What will happen tomorrow. And the same person woke up, the one that had slept, myself, the one that startled awake in the middle of the night, I startled because what I saw roused me as if it had dealt me a blow the moment it rushed out of my mind. And the mind opened as if it were a book, and with one eye I was looking inside it to find out what was written there while the other eye was still searching for something within my sleep. And in front of me, the book was growing larger as an image was opening wide inside it and the eye was staring at it, the image unfurled and became brighter, and it was encircling me while it kept spreading and growing. Now it was huge in proportion, and I was turning around to see it as best as I could, but I couldn’t get a full idea of it, nor could I discern what was going on in the background, but it was as if something was coming from there. And it scared me because it did not stop growing (larger and larger) and I could no longer perceive its edges, at first it was only that kind of fear like when you don’t know what’s really happening, but then, as you go along, you realize that you are part of it too, and you get used to that, and become less afraid. And that was the moment he came: a towering man, a few feet ahead, he approached and yet he remained motionless, he was only a few feet away, and I was trying to figure out if he could see me as well, I could not make out his eyes for some reason, and then I looked down at his feet just in case he might decide to walk over to me. I couldn’t make out any eyes but the head was yellow, there was a light inside it and it illuminated the whole body below, a very bright light, and yet the arms and the chest were pale, silvery, it seemed as if they had been resting for years, and then the belly and legs down to the knees were glowing red as if the whole of his blood had gathered there, and it looked as if there was no skin to hold the blood in, and it seemed to me as if he tried to take a step forward but he ended up staying in the same spot. His legs were red from the knees up and his shins were black down to the ankles. Maybe there was a little red on them too, a somewhat drab shade of red, and they were black and hard as thick iron poles nailed to the ground. I still couldn’t get an idea of the feet, one moment they also seemed to be black, but it was bizarre, it was not like that, on the one hand, they looked hard and black at the heels but less so as you went towards the toes and from a certain point on the rest seemed like broken bits, like bits of shells or plates or something, I could not really tell, and yet, nonetheless, they did look like feet at the end, and had toes, as they should, I thought maybe they were sunk in the dirt, or maybe were made out of dirt, I could not really tell, in other places it seemed quite clear that it was like a black hardwood, or a kind of iron and then slowly their shape would vanish. I realized deep within myself that these legs were not made to walk. But again, I couldn’t really tell what this was about, and then I saw that people had gathered around him, out of the blue, as if they had come from nowhere, for an instant I turned my head elsewhere, and when I looked back, everyone had gathered at once. Some had also brought ladders with them, and others had brought tools and were struggling to cut the man into pieces, it seemed that they were craving to cut him into pieces. It seemed clear that they had all come together and were working to break or chip off whatever they could, pieces that were like stones in various shapes, they would take them down, carry them further along, start building with them and then go back, and those who cut them, gave them more. Bricks and stones in colors depending on which part of the body they were cut out from, and they erected stairs, like scaffolding, and slowly lowered his head, slowly, lower, and lower. While his body was hollowed out, houses kept being built around him and after they had removed the final pieces, his head was left in the middle, and yet as always, it lit up from within, and at that point they started to build around it as well and then walled it off, until nothing could be seen anymore. And while they were working non-stop, there was a noise, and they turned towards where they heard something suddenly snapping, like the branch of a huge tree, carried away by the wind. The wind had picked up and flung a rock toward them that broke off from the opposite side. It landed on top of everything they had built, and, in an instant, everything was in ruins, and the wind drowned them in dust and from far beyond it brought stones and wood, and papers and clothes, from who knows where, and gathered them there in one growing pile. It was bizarre, because the houses were destroyed and those that were left looked like crumpled cardboard boxes that the wind had carried and filled with rags and papers. It started off like a pyramid, now it was already a hill, still climbing, and you couldn’t tell where these people were, if they were still there or if they were gone, but they were probably there, and it was bizarre because if you drew closer, it seemed as if they were also made out of paper, or rather, clay and rotting paper, photos, newspapers - a mountain of trash that flapped like flags in the wind. It was very odd because all of this was vaulted over there by just one single gust, and that happened now, and yet it seemed as if it were a long time ago that the whole thing took place, but no one could see it until this very moment, like a stone wearing away in the wind for a long time now, like a tree that keeps growing until it withers, and what’s left is a nondescript land, where something has ended and nothing will ever change again, and when it's over, it’s over, that’s it, this very pile, everything is contained there. And the tree has now withered. Its day is buried inside that place. But for you it is not yet the case, for you the end has not come, you have just woken up, soon the day will break. Do not bother to think, because this whole thing means nothing at all, and if you stop thinking about it you see none of that anymore. Turn around and go back to sleep. Nothing has changed. It was just a dream. That’s always how sleep comes, splitting the mind in two, and then everything gets confused with everything else. But it was a dream and it’s over now. Sleep.
Σβησμενη μερα. Κι αν πραγματι υπηρξε ποτε, εσβησε πια στο κεφαλι, και το κεφαλι εγειρε πανω απ’ τα γονατα και τα γονατα επεσαν διπλα στο ξενο κορμι που μεσα του τωρα χυθηκε ο υπνος. Κι εκει που ειχε βρει το κορμι ενα τροπο να μεινει ακινητο, σε οποιο κρεβατι, ετρεξε μεσα του παλι μια σκεψη. Τι θα γινει αυριο. Και ξυπνησε παλι ο ιδιος, αυτος που κοιμηθηκε, εγω, αυτος που στη μεση της νυχτας πεταχτηκε επανω, πεταχτηκα επανω, γιατι αυτο που ειδα με ξυπνησε παλι, σα να με χτυπησε οπως εφυγε απ᾽το μυαλο. Και ανοιξε το μυαλο σα βιβλιο και το ενα ματι κοιτουσε εκει μεσα τι εγραφε και το αλλο ματι κατι εψαχνε ακομη μεσα στον υπνο. Και το βιβλιο μπροστα μου μεγαλωνε, κι ανοιγε εκει μια εικονα και το ματι την εβλεπε, η εικονα ξετυλιγοταν και γινοταν ολο και πιο φωτεινη, και με αγκαλιαζε ενω απλωνε ακομα γυρω μου μεγαλωνοντας. Τωρα ειχε γινει τεραστια και γυριζα απο εδω κι απο εκει για να τη δω οσο μπορουσα, αλλα δεν την εβλεπα ολοκληρη, κι ουτε ακριβως μπορουσα να διακρινω στο βαθος αλλα σα να ερχοταν κατι απο εκει. Και με φοβιζε που μεγαλωνε και δεν εβλεπα τις ακρες της πια, στην αρχη ηταν μονο ενας φοβος οπως οταν δεν ξερεις τι γινεται αλλα υστερα καταλαβαινεις πως ενα κομματι αυτης της εικονας εισαι κι εσυ, και συνηθιζεις, και φοβασαι λιγοτερο. Αυτη τη στιγμη ηταν που ηρθε: Ενας αντρας, πανυψηλος, λιγα μετρα μπροστα μου, ηρθε αλλα ηταν ακινητος, ηταν μονο λιγα μετρα μακρια και προσπαθουσα να καταλαβω αν με βλεπει κι εκεινος, δεν μπορουσα ομως καθολου να ξεχωρισω τα ματια του, κι υστερα τον κοιταζα κατω στα ποδια, μηπως περπατησει και ερθει σε μενα. Δεν εβλεπα ματια αλλα το κεφαλι ηταν κιτρινο, ειχε μεσα ενα φως και φωτιζε ολο το σωμα απο κατω, ενα φως πολυ δυνατο, ομως τα χερια και το στηθος ηταν χλωμα, ασημενια, εμοιαζαν να ειχαν μεινει για χρονια ακινητα, κι επειτα η κοιλια και τα ποδια μεχρι τα γονατα κοκκινιζαν σα να ειχε μαζευτει ολο το αιμα του εκει, και φαινοταν το αιμα σα να μην ειχε δερμα να το εμποδιζει, και μου φανηκε πως προσπαθησε να κανει ενα βημα μπροστα, εμεινε ομως στο ιδιο σημειο. Τα ποδια κοκκινα μεχρι τα γονατα κι απο εκει οι κνημες μεχρι τους αστραγαλους καταμαυρες. Ισως με λιγο κοκκινο μεσα κι αυτες, ομως λιγο μουντο, και μαυρες σκληρες σα χοντρα σιδερενια κονταρια καρφωμενα στο χωμα. Τα πελματα ακομα δεν καταλαβαινα, μια μου φαινονταν μαυρα και αυτα, αλλα ηταν περιεργο, δεν ηταν ετσι, απο τη μια φαινονταν σκληρα και μαυρα στις φτερνες μεχρι λιγο μπροστα κι υστερα ηταν σα σπασμενα κομματια το υπολοιπο, σα κομματια απο οστρακα η πιατα, δεν καταλαβαινα, οπου φαινονταν ομως στο τελος τα δαχτυλα, κανονικα, σκεφτηκα μηπως ηταν βυθισμενα στο χωμα, η μηπως ηταν φτιαγμενα απο χωμα, δεν καταλαβαινα, φαινοταν ξεκαθαρα σε ορισμενα σημεια πως ηταν σα μαυρο ξυλο σκληρο, η σιδερο και υστερα σιγα σιγα χανοταν το σχημα τους. Ενοιωσα μεσα μου πως αυτα τα ποδια δεν περπατουσαν. Αλλα παλι δεν καταλαβαινα τι ηταν ολο αυτο, κι επειτα ειδα πως ξαφνικα γυρω του μαζευτηκε κοσμος, εντελως ξαφνικα γιατι δε φαινοταν να ειχαν ερθει απο καπου, για μια στιγμη ειχα γυρισει το κεφαλι αλλου και υστερα αμεσως ειχαν προλαβει να μαζευτουν ολοι εκει. Καποιοι ειχαν φερει και σκαλες μαζι τους και αλλοι ειχαν φερει εργαλεια και προσπαθουσαν να κοψουν κομματια τον ανθρωπο, φαινοταν οτι ηθελαν να τον κοψουν κομματια. Φαινοταν οτι ειχαν ερθει ολοι μαζι και δουλευαν να σπασουν η να ξεκολλησουν ο,τι μπορουσαν, ηταν σαν πετρες σε διαφορα σχηματα, τις κατεβαζαν τις κουβαλουσαν πιο περα και αρχιζαν να χτιζουν με αυτες και υστερα γυριζαν πισω και αυτοι που τον εκοβαν τους εδιναν και αλλες. Τουβλα και πετρες σε χρωματα αναλογα με το σημειο του σωματος που ειχε κοπει, και ειχαν βαλει τις σκαλες, σα σκαλωσιες, και σιγα σιγα κατεβαζαν το κεφαλι του, σιγα σιγα ολο και πιο χαμηλα. Καθως το σωμα του αδειαζε χτιζονταν σπιτια τριγυρω και οταν πηραν τα τελευταια κομματια το κεφαλι ειχε ξεμεινει στη μεση αλλα φωτιζε οπως παντα με το μεσα του φως και αρχισαν τοτε να χτιζουν και γυρω απ᾽αυτο και να το κλεινουν μεσα σε τοιχους μεχρι που δε φαινοταν τιποτα πια. Κι οπως δουλευαν και δε σταματουσαν, ενας θορυβος, και γυρισαν να δουν προς τα εκει που ακουσαν κατι να σπαει ξαφνικα, σαν ενα κλαδι απο ενα τεραστιο δεντρο, που το πηρε ο αερας. Ειχε σηκωθει αερας και ειχε σπασει ενα βραχο απο απεναντι και τον ειχε πεταξει επανω τους. Πανω σε ο,τι ειχαν φτιαξει, και σε μια στιγμη εγιναν ολα συντριμμια, τα επαιρνε ολα ο ανεμος και τα επνιγε μεσα στη σκονη και απο περα μακρια εφερνε πετρες και ξυλα, χαρτια και ρουχα, ποιος ξερει απο που, και τα μαζευε εκει σε ενα σωρο που μεγαλωνε. Ηταν παραξενο, γιατι τα σπιτια ειχαν διαλυθει εντελως κι αυτα που απομεναν εμοιαζαν με βουλιαγμενα κουτια απο χαρτονι και ο αερας εφερνε και τα γεμιζε με χαρτια και κουρελια. Μια πυραμιδα, ενας λοφος που ανεβαινε ακομα, και δεν ηξερες που ειχαν παει ολοι αυτοι αν ηταν μεσα η αν ειχαν φυγει αλλα μαλλον μεσα ηταν, και ηταν παραξενο, γιατι αν πλησιαζες πιο κοντα φαινοταν πως ηταν κι αυτοι απο χαρτι, η μαλλον χωμα και σαπιο χαρτι, φωτογραφιες, εφημεριδες - ενα βουνο απο σκουπιδια που ανεμιζε σα σημαια στον ανεμο. Ηταν παραξενο γιατι τα ειχε φερει ολα εκει ξαφνικα μια σκετη ριπη, κι αυτο συνεβαινε τωρα, αυτη τη στιγμη, αλλα απ᾽την αλλη φαινοταν σαν να ηταν πολυ παλια που εγινε αυτο, σα να μη μπορουσε κανεις να το δει, σα μια πετρα που λιωνει στον ανεμο πολυ καιρο τωρα, οπως μεγαλωνει ενα δεντρο ωσπου να ξεραθει, και μενει ενας συνεχομενος τοπος οπου κατι τελειωσε και που δε θα αλλαξει τιποτα πια, κι οταν τελειωσει, τελος, αυτο ειναι, αυτος ο σωρος, ολα εχουν χωρεσει εκει μεσα. Και το δεντρο ξεραθηκε. Εκει μεσα θαφτηκε η ημερα του. Για σενα ομως δεν ειναι ετσι ακομα, για σενα δεν εχει τελειωσει, εσυ μολις ξυπνησες, θα χαραξει σε λιγο. Μη σκεφτεσαι, δε σημαινουν τιποτε αυτα, κι αν δεν τα σκεφτεσαι ουτε καν θα τα βλεπεις. Γυρισε παλι να κοιμηθεις. Δεν αλλαξε τιποτα. Ονειρο ηταν. Παντα ετσι ο υπνος σπαει στα δυο το μυαλο οταν μπει κι υστερα ολα μπερδευονται. Ονειρο ηταν. Κοιμησου. Τελειωσε.
–Dimitris Lyacos, translated into English by Andrew Barrett
Andrew Barrett is a translator and musician, who lives in Detroit, Michigan. He translates from the ancient Greek and modern Greek. He is currently working with modern Greek poet and writer Dimitris Lyacos on Until the Victim Becomes our Own, the follow up to Lyacos’ Poena Damni trilogy. He is one of forty-two translators who contributed to a new translation of the Dionysiaca of Nonnus, published by The University of Michigan Press in 2022. He attended the Banff International Translation Centre.