#13 Deep Breath
Chapter one of Rita Halász's Deep Breath
I.
Mum, tell us a story! I don’t answer. Not even to say later, or that I don’t feel like it. My dad is silent too, we’re moving at a snail’s pace. I like the way he drives, an even rhythm, no sudden movements. Andrássy Avenue sparkles in all its lit-up glory. If the snow pitches soon, we won’t be able to get up the hill. Settles. Snow settles, only the proletariats from Pest say the snow pitches. Péter’s voice echoes in my head.* I have boots on, I don’t remember putting them on. I turn back, the kids are wearing their winter jackets, hats, scarves. What did I tell them, why are we going to their grandpa’s? Why are we bringing our suitcases? Perhaps they didn’t even ask. They’re shouting again. They want me to tell them a story, but I just stare out the window. The last time there was this much snow was in 87, we sledged all the way down to school. There weren’t many of us, classes were merged and we watched Tom & Jerry the whole day. I sat next to Iván, he doesn’t remember this. I fleetingly think about messaging him. I’ve left, you can find me at my dad’s. Better not.
What kind of story would you like, asks my dad. The one where spring chases away winter. But mum should tell it! Leave your mother alone. There is central heating at my dad’s place, maybe I’ll pee more. At Izabella street, the toilet was so cold, I preferred to hold it. That’s what I’m best at: holding it. I need to look for a job. I’ll let my friends know, I’ll write a resume, a cover letter. I’ve been stuck at home for years, all I want is to be amongst people and to feel useful again, I’ll beg them to hire me. I’m sure my dad’s place will be dirty and untidy. And cold. I can’t pull any faces, he doesn’t like it when I’m ungrateful. I’ll ask him to turn up the heating. I’ll clean tomorrow. It won’t be comfortable in my old room, but we’ll make do. The kids on the sofa bed, me on my old bed.
I haven’t seen the city so white in ages. Everything is quiet, the cars are slow, people seem peaceful. I open the sun visor and look at myself in the mirror. You can’t tell anything about me. It’d be good to stay like this. In the car all night, looking out onto the white streets and the lit up city, with the kids asleep in the back. Usually my dad can’t keep quiet for very long, but he’d let us sit in silence. He wouldn’t ask useless questions, he wouldn’t ask any questions at all.
We turn up the street. The neighbour is shovelling snow in front of the house, he asks me this and that, my dad answers for me. It’s at least a metre high in the garden, lighting up in the dark. I open the door, familiar smell, familiar view, a brown cabinet with my dad’s shoes sticking out. The thermostat is at 18 degrees, feel free to turn it up, he says behind me. I’m grateful I don’t have to ask. We take multiple turns with the suitcases, I sit the kids in front of the TV, my dad and I form a pact: he cooks, I unpack.
My old room is freezing, there are piles of bags on the floor, suitcases, rolled up rugs, plastic bags, boxes. The garage must be full then. I can’t reach the radiator. I collapse onto a chair, I can’t move. I’m eyeing the sofa bed, Péter and I used to fuck on it a lot, before the wedding.
The bell rings, my mum must be here. I moved out a couple of years after she left my dad. I married Péter, and time stopped. She hugs me. I’m whinging about my decision to leave, how far the kindergarten is from here, how I don’t have money or a job, how dirty it is here. You’re safe here, she retorts. You only need to clean and tidy a bit. But you can’t fix that. That’s only an illusion.
The two of us stand still next to the yellow ETA 2400 vacuum cleaner. They bought it the year I was born. I used to beg my dad to buy a new one, one that actually worked. Nothing’s wrong with it, the filter just needs changing. I’ve already changed it, but it still leaves dust behind. Maybe it doesn’t work as it should, but it does work, you're too fussy, that’s the end of that. My mother straightens her back, fixes her hair. Endre, it’s time you buy a new vacuum cleaner, Media Markt should still be open, I’ll be back soon. C’mon, Babika**, cut it out. You don’t have to pay for it, snaps my mum. She’s back in her car in no time.***
The three of us lie on the sofa bed, I’m waiting for the kids to fall asleep so I can get into my own bed. I last lay here with Péter, it was summer, we only used a sheet for a blanket. I thought I’d be safe with him anywhere. Are we going to sleep here tomorrow too? asks the older. Yes. She doesn’t ask why, maybe she’s afraid of the answer.**** I’m afraid too. Everything is different here, she goes on, the walls are small. What do you mean, the walls are small? She’s thinking of our high ceiling. Don’t you like it? It’s better at home, she answers.
The snow must be pitching by now, says the younger. It’s settling, not pitching, corrects the older. It’s like listening to Péter, she’s got the same imperious edge. I never spoke back, to insist that it can be said like this too, that it is correct. Instead, I changed my own use of the word. It is nicer to say settling, after all, it’s neater, I tried to convince myself, but I felt snobby as I said it. Pitching is okay too, I break the silence. But dad said that it’s an ugly word. It’s not ugly really, I say. Just different.
To say that I translate for fun would reduce this practice to nothing more than a whimsy. But translation is a wonderful, fascinating, living beast, one that is worth taking your time with; worth submitting to; worth agonising over. Not long after I started translating Rita Halász's Deep Breath for my own enjoyment/learning, I saw the news that the English rights have been acquired by Catapult and it will be published in autumn next year. I decided to keep pushing on with it, if only to see how the end result differs when I get my hands on an English language copy.
I wanted to share this first chapter because it challenged me as a reader in Hungarian, and as an aspiring translator trying to hit the right tone in English: a delicious, frustrating combination! Below are some of my notes to contextualise how many decisions have to go into translating just a couple hundred words.
* This was, by far, the most challenging part of this chapter. To give you a bit of context, in Hungarian there are two different verbs to express that snow is falling. I'd say they're just synonyms of each other, but one does sound more literary, a tiny bit softer. In the book (spoiler alert) the protagonist is a woman who has just escaped an abusive marriage. She is ruminating on things around her, and instinctively uses one of the verbs to remark that it's snowing outside (esik a hó), then out of reflex berates herself because according to her husband, the other verb is the proper one to use (hullik a hó). It is implied that the husband is controlling, and in fact there is no grammatical difference between the two, he just likes to enforce his own, seemingly more sophisticated ways on his wife. Now, in English there is no stylistic difference between different types of snowing, at least not between two equally common usages. After talking to a bunch of different (actual) translators, this version was the best I could come up with (and somewhat irrelevant in Australia as this advice came from a British translator): differentiating between snow settling and snow pitching. I’m sure there are other ways around this problem (and if you’re a translator, I’d love to chat about them), but it was fascinating to read about different approaches to a stylistic difference like this. Was this the best translation? Definitely not. Will I keep sub-consciously obsessing over it? Definitely yes.
** Another interesting part — to change or not to change a name? More specifically, to embed a very common diminutive, or to leave it as is? Just like in English you’d add "-let" to the word "pig" to make the word "piglet”, Hungarian uses diminutives to indicate affection towards things (and most often, people). My parents usually call me Fruzsika — in this case, the father is calling the mother Babika after Babi. Is there a way to imply this affection otherwise? Could he have called her ‘dear Babi’ instead? Maybe — to me it doesn’t feel the same (or as natural), but the diminutive is lost in translation anyway, so maybe it’s the way to do it.
*** I’m fascinated by the author’s writing style, it’s so lucid that you never know if you’re floating in the present or being pulled back from the past. Trying to give this same sense of disorientation and layer of remove was fun but rather challenging. Something about Hungarian makes this style work really well — not sure if that came through in English. Ah, the joys of translation!
**** Hungarian doesn’t have gendered pronouns, and having read the whole book, I know that the author never makes it clear whether the protagonist’s children are male or female. This is of course a lot easier in Hungarian than in English. In the original, the children are secondary characters floating in the abyss left behind by the mother’s decision to leave, punctuated by her lack of maternal instincts. I couldn’t find a way of replicating this remove without overpowering the text with “the older said",” “the younger said.” To me, they felt like girls, so that’s what I ran with. If I was an actual translator, I could check with the author and confirm which she’d prefer. In any case, let me know what you’d prefer — ambiguity or flow?
Welcome to my nerdy version of Fuck, Marry, Kill — but for books! Each fortnight I include a book that I would like to buy because it’s fun, pretty to look at, or would look good on my bookshelf; a book I have read or am reading and loving; and a book I have read or am reading and hating.
Need: Every single person seems to be talking about All Fours by Miranda July, so this is my reminder to get my hands on it when I get a spare moment (ha!). Called irreverently sexy, tender, hilarious, and surprising in turns, this sounds like the perfect form of escapism. And what a gorgeous cover!
Love: I couldn’t in good conscience not include The End and Everything Before It by Finegan Kruckemeyer here. If you follow me on Instagram you have probably heard me gush about this book before, so excuse the double-up: but as I said, I must! When I first read this book in manuscript form last year, it felt like a literary epiphany. I remember so clearly a work friend finishing it on her lunch break, looking up at me, and the two of us just exploding into a half an hour discussion of every single element of the book. It’s got everything I want out of a novel: breathtaking lyricism, a host of flawed but perfectly human characters, and just the right amount of magical realism. It’s out as of yesterday, so go and order yourself a copy, and thank me later!
Bin: I’m only one fifth of the way through, but so far I’m not loving Caledonian Road by Andrew O’Hagan, which is such a shame considering how much I was taken by his novel Mayflies. I am, however, not giving up, so check back in a fortnight’s time to find out if it makes it out of the bin.
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