In Love, Post-Apocalypse

Riproduco qui un frammento della traduzione in lingua inglese del mio racconto: “Un Innamorato nell’Apocalisse”, (In Love, Post-Apocalypse) da parte di un incredibile professionista Anne Milano Appel che è consustanziale spirito della mia lingua:

“I headed out to the frozen pond where I used to swim with Nathalie. The pond, just a little over a mile from my house, had become a dry wash.  In it there was no longer any water to drown myself with the reeds.  All that could be seen in the dry bed was a darkness similar to nights when the trees await you patiently, unable to move. From time to time as I walked I glanced at the manuscript pages that were the yellow of wheat.  The dedication was the first name of our child. Far off, on the horizon, a bird lost its wings; watching it with watery eyes, for the first time I tried to imagine my future without Nathalie. I reached the pond and, with eyes closed, let the manuscript drop into the gully, not following it as it fell. Now, on this night that seems like day, I lean on the kitchen table with clenched fists.  From outside come beautiful, terrible sounds:  tree trunks crashing down, birds dying, rumbling in the snow-covered valleys. Snow falls softly from the sky, along with a flock of ducks that hit the ground with a heavy thud, like a slab of meat on the slaughterhouse table. I roast them and admire the beauty of the gas that lights up the entire room.  Then I go into my bedroom. Sometimes I dream of you, Nathalie, with the baby’s skeleton reaching for your face, the child who died two days before you ran away.  Who was the color of agate when you gave birth to him, suffocated with no explanation.  Whom I took in my arms as the sun shining on your hair drew back against the window. In the dream you say:  “he’s not breathing, his coloring isn’t right, he won’t open his eyes.  He’s dead!” Then I embrace you gently, quietly, and carefully lay the body of the child in the empty cradle. The baby now sleeps with the manuscript…”




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