Uit:The Lonesome Bodybuilder (Vertaald door Asa Yoneda)
“Would feel at home in the crafts club. Would find a job locally. But what really would have happened if I’d gotten on the roller coaster that day? I have the feeling I would have met a version of myself I don’t know now. Lived a completely different life. The gong sounded, and the men stood up. I’d assumed that throwing out punches was all there was to it, but the boxers guarded against every blow, observing each other’s movements with eagle eyes. That must be what they call dynamic vision. If only I had some dynamic vision too, I might not have missed out on so many things. The match was over, and they sounded the biggest gong yet. The very next day, I started training to become a bodybuilder. I thought at first that I could aim to be a pro boxer, but I realized that I didn’t have a trace of fighting spirit in me. No desire to beat anyone up. It was the bodies of the two boxers I’d seen on TV the previous night that seemed to be seared into my brain, even while I was at my job, working the register at a natural health and beauty shop. They turned in all directions, showing off their bodies to me. Even while I described various products to customers. This is a moisturizing cream with pomegranate traditionally used in herbal medicine. How do firm limbs feel? This hair oil is made from rare organic concentrated plant extracts. What is it like when a strong body throbs? Was I looking for an affair? Of course not. I loved my husband. He could be bumbling and juvenile, but he was just working too hard, that was all. I only needed to hang on until he was done with this busy period, and then he’d start initiating again. It wasn’t that I wanted to touch any other man. I just wanted to luxuriate in some taut muscle. I hadn’t felt so giddy in a long time. I’d swing by the pharmacy on my way home from work and get some protein powder. I liked the taste of the protein powder when I tried it, and decided to join a gym. I felt a little worried about fitting it into the household budget, but I found a small, independent fitness club two train stops away, whose website advertised “100 Free Sessions Until You See the Results You Want!” Having never done any serious exercise before, I had no idea what kind of progress I’d be able to make in a hundred sessions. On the first day of my private sessions, I confided to the trainer — a boy in his early twenties — that I wanted to become a bodybuilder. He stopped writing on his clipboard and looked at me with surprise. “Bodybuilding? Not weight loss.” “Yes. Your website said you have a training program.” “We do, but this is pretty unusual. Women in their thirties usually come looking to lose weight, so I assumed . . .” “Is it very difficult?” “Not really. But with bodybuilding, you won’t get anywhere with weight training alone. Nutrition is key. Could you handle consuming, say, four thousand calories a day? That’s double the daily amount for an average adult male.”
„Tom
war sich sicher, dass der Junge nach ihm rief. Er glaubte seine helle
Stimme zu hören, während er den Flur zwischen Küche und Atelier
durchquerte. Er knips te das Neonlicht an und betrat das Atelier. Mach
dich nicht verrückt, dachte er, es ist doch nur ein Bild. Die noch
unfertige Leinwand, die an der Schmalseite des Raums lehnte, zeigte
einen etwa siebzehnjährigen Jungen, der mit den Füßen im Schnee versank
und sein bleiches Gesicht dem Betrachter zuwandte. Er hatte den Mund
weit geöffnet und die Augen aufgerissen. In einer stark ausholenden
Körperdrehung streckte er den rechten Arm nach hinten und deutete auf
eine Stelle im Schnee, an der ein umgestürzter Wagen lag. Bettdecken,
Körbe, große Kisten, verblichene Reisekoffer lagen im Schnee verstreut.
Das Gestänge eines Vogelkäfigs ragte heraus, ein Fahrradlenker, eine
alte Standuhr. Weiter hinten, halb verschüttet, aber gut sichtbar, lag
eine junge Frau, die ihren gewölbten Bauch schützend mit den Armen
bedeckte. Das Bild war 250 mal 180 Zentimeter groß, Toms bevor zugtes
Standardmaß. Er hatte beschlossen, die Pferde weg zu lassen. Pferde
würden das Elend zu sehr betonen, es wären Mitleid erregende Kreaturen,
die aus offenen Wunden bluteten. Natürlich hätte er die Pferde an den
Horizont stellen können, sie hätten still und ergeben dagestanden und
damit angedeutet, um was für einen Wagen es sich handelte. Er musste
jetzt wieder an die Pferde denken, obwohl er sich letzte Nacht gegen sie
entschieden hatte. Es war ein Bild von der Flucht im Zweiten Weltkrieg.
Der junge Mann im Vordergrund, der zerbrochene Wagen und der dichte
Schnee gaben genügend Hinweise darauf. Tom nahm einen feinen Pinsel vom
Tisch und machte sich wieder an die Arbeit. Keine Pferde, dachte er noch
einmal. Der Schnee war das beherrschende, alles verschluckende Element.
Er lag meterhoch, sodass man sich wildes, windgepeitschtes
Schneetreiben vorstellen konnte. In der Szene selbst schneite es nicht.
Es war keine einzige Schneeflocke zu sehen, nichts trat zwischen das
Gesicht des Jungen und den Betrachter. So lebendig und aufgebracht
sollte der Junge erscheinen, so plastisch und real, dass der Betrachter
meinte, er steige zu ihm heraus. Dabei war Tom die Nähe zu dem Jungen
beim Malen eher unangenehm; er fühlte sich beklommen, wenn er seinem
Gesicht zu nahe kam. Als Vorlage diente ihm eine kleine
SchwarzWeißFotografie, darauf war die Haltung, um die es ihm ging,
nicht zu erkennen. Das Foto zeigte einen schmächtigen, freundlich
lächelnden Schüler, keineswegs ein verzerrtes Gesicht. So angespannt und
überdreht wie auf der Leinwand war er im Leben selten anzutreffen
gewesen, aber Tom hatte sich dieser Ausdruck trotzdem tief eingeprägt.
Er hatte manchmal von ihm als wild tanzendem Mann geträumt und sich für
ihn im Traum geschämt. Im Zentrum seines Lebens hatte die Katastrophe
gestanden, die mit dem Krieg über ihn hereingebrochen war. Und Tom hatte
immer gewusst, dass er diese Katastrophe eines Tages auf die Leinwand
bringen würde.“
Uit: The Reason I Carry Biscuits to Offer to Young Boys (Vertaald door Asa Yoneda)
“Try these—they’re really delicious.” I
was in the bus shelter opposite the train station, taking shelter from
the rain while I waited for my mom, when the guy with the umbrella
started talking to me. I hadn’t noticed him turn up but the old guy, who
was dressed in rags, gave me a friendly smile and offered me a little
packet of biscuits. “You look hungry,” he said. “Go ahead, they’re
really delicious.” Even though we were in the middle of a huge typhoon
and the ferocious wind was howling past my ears, I thought I caught a
whiff of the old guy’s sour smell. “Aw,
biscuits!” I said, taking them like a good child. I was clutching the
biscuits inside my palm and nervously pretending to eat them when then
the guy pointed toward the junction where the wide station road met a
smaller road and, out of nowhere, said, “Don’t ever underestimate people
like them.” He was pointing at a man in a suit waiting for the lights
to turn, desperately holding his umbrella open in the storm. I
didn’t react, but secretly I was pretty worried that he’d read my mind.
I’d been watching people just like suit man passing by, laughing at
them inside. Any time I saw typhoon coverage on TV, I just had to
wonder: What on earth were these people thinking? Walking along looking
totally focused on holding their barely open umbrellas in front of them
when their clothes, their hair and most likely even their socks were wet
through. I was like, Are you sure there isn’t something wrong with your
head? Don’t tell me you kowtow to umbrellas, at your age? But I’d never
mentioned these thoughts to anyone else. “Just
watch,” said the old guy. “Soon he’ll be down to bare bones.” I didn’t
know what he meant, but his voice was strong like a sea captain’s, so I
looked to where his gnarly finger was pointing, at the man in a suit
holding on for dear life to the guardrail by the crossing. I’d nearly
been blown out onto the road there too, earlier, as I battled the rain
that blew horizontally into my face. Because it was a junction, the
strong winds bore straight at you. “Three!
Two! One!” The old guy shouted, just as the man’s umbrella turned
inside out like a rice bowl and its fabric disappeared as though an
invisible man had ripped it off, instantly reducing the umbrella to just
its skeleton. I was speechless. The old guy’s timing had been perfect. * Associating
with people like him was a bad idea. I knew this, but his shabby
appearance and offensive smell didn’t bother me that much any more. He
handed me another packet of biscuits, and I pretended to nibble them
again, apologizing to him in my head for deceiving him. Oblivious to
that, the guy started telling a story about some boy from a tribe that
lived deep in a forest. It was about what the young kid did to win an
umbrella that a foreigner had brought to their village. “They
beat each other with sticks,” said the guy. The wind was whipping his
long, tangled hair around, and it looked like the strands were trying to
feed on his face.”
“The
opening of the official Salon on April 30, 1863, was attended by
several thousand Parisians interested in art exhi-bitions. The jury gave
a prize to the picture called The Pearl and the Wave, a young woman
voluptuously extended on the bank receiving the embraces of the
caressing waves. Corot and Millet were described by the judges as
“foremost”. Gustave Courbet was infuriated because he had been described
as “fad-ing and passing away”. Portrait of the Emperor was judged “the
most important work of the exhibit”. Le Figaro’s critic was disappointed
with the Salon. He wrote: “It is an honest and prudent French school.
The general effect is sleepy”. The two weeks preceding the “Salon des
Refuses” dragged unmercifully. When, a couple of days prior to the
opening, the Emperor announced that he and his Empress would attend the
showing of the unwanted artists, a shock wave went through Paris.
Everyone who had been at the opening of the official Salon would have to
attend this second Salon to see and be seen by their Majesties. It was
expected that there would be an enormous crowd. “We’ll have a great
success,” cried Claude Monet. Camille Pissarro responded, “You see, to
be rejected is not the same as being ignored.” On the day of the opening
he and his colleagues assembled in the passageway between Palais de
l’Industrie and the adjoining building shortly before the opening hour.
They found the exhibit as luxuriously mounted as that of the official
Salon. Antique tapestries hung in the doorways. The benches were made
comfortable with red velvet cushions. The skylights were covered with
white cotton screens to cut the glare. There was a long series of
display rooms. All like the official Salon.., except for the pictures.
The brightness of their color, the mood, the authenticity of the figures
and the presence of fresh air. The feeling of youth, of gaiety. Of
innovation. In the two areas termed “the place of dishonor” were Edouard
Manet’s Luncheon on the Grass, two gentlemen fully clothed in vests,
jackets and cravats, and two women entirely naked, sitting and gathering
flowers, beside them the picnic basket and its luxurious contents
overflowing into the foreground.“
Irving Stone (14 juli 1903 – 26 augustus 1989) Cover
“Ze
bleef altijd heel lang in de badkamer en dan kwam iedereen aan de deur
kloppen, terwijl zij begon te roepen dat ze er ge-noeg van had in een
huis te wonen waar niemand respect voor haar had; ze wilde meteen haar
koffers pakken en naar haar zuster in Genua vertrekken. Twee of drie
keer had ze haar koffers onder de kast vandaan gehaald en was ze
begonnen haar schoenen in stoffen zakjes te stoppen. Je moest gewoon
doen of er niets aan de hand was en dan haalde ze even later haar
schoenen weer tevoorschijn. Overigens wist iedereen dat die zuster in
Genua haar helemaal niet in huis wilde hebben.Juffrouw Maria kwam geheel
gekleed, met haar hoed op, de badkamer uit en rende meteen de straat op
met een schepje om mest te verzamelen voor de rozen, vliegensvlug,
terwijl ze goed oplette dat er niemand aan kwam. Daarna ging ze inkopen
doen met het boodschappennet, ze speelde het klaar om in een halfuur de
hele stad door te rennen op haar vlugge voetjes in schoenen met een
strik. Iedere morgen speurde ze de hele stad af naar koopjes, en kwam
doodmoe thuis. Ze had altijd een slecht humeur als ze boodschappen had
gedaan en viel uit tegen Concettina, die nog in haar ochtendjas
rond-liep: ze zei dat ze nooit had gedacht dat ze nog eens met een
boodschappennet door de stad zou moeten sjouwen, toen ze vroeger in het
rijtuig naast grootmoeder zat, met haar knieën lekker warm onder de
deken en de mensen die haar groet-ten. Concettina borstelde langzaam
haar haar voor de spiegel, bracht daarna haar gezicht tot vlak bij het
glas en bekeek een voor een haar sproeten, bekeek haar tanden en haar
tandvlees, stak haar tong uit en bekeek die ook. Ze kamde haar haar
strak naar achteren in een wrong in haar nek, met een warrige pony op
haar voorhoofd; met die pony leek ze precies op een cocot-te, zei
juffrouw Maria. Daarna deed ze de kast wijd open en dacht na over welke
kleren ze zou aantrekken. Intussen luchtte juffrouw Maria de bedden en
klopte de kleden, met een doek om haar hoofd en haar mouwen opgerold
over haar oude, ta-nige armen. Maar ze dook weg bij het raam als ze de
mevrouw van het huis aan de overkant het balkon op zag komen, want ze
hield er niet van gezien te worden met haar hoofddoek om terwijl ze de
kleden aan het kloppen was, en dan dacht ze er-aan terug dat ze in dit
huis was gekomen als gezelschapsdame, en kijk nu eens wat ze moest
doen.De overbuurvrouw had ook een pony, maar een door de kapper
gekrulde, stijlvol verwarde pony, en juffrouw Maria zei dat ze jonger
leek dan Concettina wanneer ze ’s morgens naar buiten kwam in haar
lichtgekleurde, frisse peignoir, en toch wist iedereen zeker dat ze
vijfenveertig was.Er waren dagen dat Concettina er niet in slaagde iets
te vinden om aan te trekken.”
“Or,
Célestine, notre cuisinière, n’aimait pas cet homme « venu on ne sait
d’où », disait-elle, et lorsqu’elle avait eu affaire avec lui, on
l’entendait maugréer en revenant : — C’est malheureux de voir ces beaux fruits touchés par ces mains-là. Silbermann, ignorant ce petit mouvement instinctif, poursuivit : —
Si les livres t’intéressent, tu viendras un jour chez moi, je te
montrerai ma bibliothèque et je te prêterai tout ce que tu voudras. Je le remerciai et acceptai. — Alors quand veux-tu venir ? dit-il aussitôt. Cet après-midi, es-tu libre ? Je ne l’étais point. Il insista. — Viens goûter jeudi prochain. Il
y eut dans cet empressement quelque chose qui me déplut et me mit sur
la défensive. Je répondis que nous conviendrions du jour plus tard ; et
comme nous étions arrivés devant la maison de mes parents, je lui tendis
la main. Silbermann la prit, la retint, et me regardant avec une expression de gratitude, me dit d’une voix infiniment douce : — Je suis content, bien content, que nous nous soyons rencontrés… je ne pensais pas que nous pourrions être camarades. — Et pourquoi ? demandai-je avec une sincère surprise. —
Au lycée, je te voyais tout le temps avec Robin ; et comme lui, durant
un mois, cet été, a refusé de m’adresser la parole, je croyais que toi
aussi… Même en classe d’anglais où nous sommes voisins, je n’ai pas
osé… Il
ne montrait plus guère d’assurance en disant ces mots. Sa voix était
basse et entrecoupée ; elle semblait monter de régions secrètes et
douloureuses. Sa main qui continuait d’étreindre la mienne comme s’il
eût voulu s’attacher à moi, trembla un peu. Ce
ton et ce frémissement me bouleversèrent. J’entrevis chez cet être si
différent des autres une détresse intime, persistante, inguérissable,
analogue à celle d’un orphelin ou d’un infirme. Je balbutiai avec un
sourire, affectant de n’avoir pas compris : — Mais c’est absurde… pour quelle raison supposais-tu… —
Parce que je suis Juif, interrompit-il nettement et avec un accent si
particulier que je ne pus distinguer si l’aveu lui coûtait ou s’il en
était fier.”
Jacques de Lacretelle (14 juli 1888 – 2 januari 1985)
De Japanse schrijfster Yukiko Motoya werd geboren op 14 juli 1979 in Hakusan, Ishikawa. Na het voltooien van de middelbare school verhuisde Motoya naar Tokio voor een opleiding tot actrice en kreeg zij een rol als stemactrice in de Hideaki Anno anime-bewerking van Kare Kano, maar zij verlegde haar focus naar schrijven nadat een leraar een kort toneelstuk had geprezen dat Motoya schreef voor de afstudeerceremonie van de school. Ze richtte in 2000 haar eigen theatergezelschap op, genaamd “Gekidan Motoyo Yukiko” en begon haar eigen toneelstukken te schrijven en te ensceneren. Haar roman “Funukedomo kanashimi no ai o misero” (Funuke, toon wat liefde, losers!) werd in 2005 uitgegeven en in 2007 bewerkt tot een gelijknamige film, die op het filmfestival van Cannes werd vertoond. Van 2005 tot 2006 presenteerde Motoya een nachtelijk radioprogramma. In 2006 werd Motoya de jongste persoon die ooit de herdenkingsprijs Tsuruya Nanboku ontving voor haar toneelstuk Sōnan (Tegenspoed). Datzelfde jaar bezocht ze de Verenigde Staten als onderdeel van een uitwisselingsprogramma voor toneelschrijvers. Een Engelse versie van haar toneelstuk “Vengeance can Wait” ging in première in 2008 op het Best of Boroughs Festival in New York City. In 2009 speelde haar toneelstuk “Shiawase saiko arigatō maji de”, over een vrouw die het huis van een echtpaar binnengaat en verklaart dat zij de minnares van de man is, won de 53e Kishida Kunio Drama Award, en het jaar daarop ging een verfilming van “Vengeance Can Wait” in première in Japan. Motoya’s bekroonde roman “Nurui doku” (Warm Vergif) werd in 2011 gepubliceerd, Voor haar roman “Arashi no pikunikku” (Picknick in de storm), gepubliceerd in 2012, kreeg zij de 7e Kenzaburo Oe-prijs 2013. Voor haar roman “Jibun wo suki ni naru houhou”, gepubliceerd in 2013, ontving zij het jaar ervoor de 27e Mishima Yukio-prijs. In 2016, na eerder drie keer genomineerd te zijn voor de Akutagawa-prijs, kreeg Motoya de 154e Akutagawa-prijs voor haar boek “Irui konin tan” (Engels: “Tales of Marriage to a Different Sort: ). In 2018 werd een verzameling korte verhalen gepubliceerd onder de titel “De eenzame bodybuilder”.
Uit:The Lonesome Bodybuilder (Vertaald door Asa Yoneda)
“When I got home from the supermarket, my husband was watching a boxing match on TV. “I didn’t know you watched this kind of thing. I never would have guessed,” I said, putting down the bags of groceries on the living room table. He made a noncommittal noise from the sofa. He seemed to be really engrossed. “Who’s winning? The big one or the little one?” I sat on the sofa next to him and took off my scarf. I’d planned on starting dinner right away, but the gears on my bicycle hadn’t been working, and I was a little tired. Just a short break. Fifteen minutes. Eyes still glued to the TV, my husband explained that the little one was looking stronger so far. They seemed to have reached the end of a round, and the gong was clanging loudly. Both fighters were covered in blood, I guessed from getting cuts on their faces from their opponent’s punches, and as soon as they sat down on the chairs in their corners, their seconds threw water over their heads. “It’s like animals bathing. So wild.” I’d tried to make sure the “wild” didn’t sound too reproachful, but my husband picked up on it. “That’s the kind of man you really want, isn’t it?” “What? What are you talking about?” “Don’t pretend. I know. I know you secretly want a brute to have his way with you.” “You know I prefer intellectual men. I don’t want an insensitive jock.” He put the remote he’d been clutching back on the table, then pulled up his sweater sleeve and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, as if taking his own pulse. His wrist was far thinner than the boxers’, it was true. “It’s like you might be some kind of artist,” I teased. He hated being pitied more than anything, so I was careful to make it sound like a joke. “Are you saying you wouldn’t go along with it, if a guy like that came on to you?” Say something, anything, to build his confidence back up, I thought, but my attention had been stolen again by the men on the TV. My blood pumped, and I could feel my body getting hot. “Of course I wouldn’t go along with it! Anyway, it’s not like that would ever happen.” Fighters are so beautiful. Incredible bodies, both of them. Taut bone and flesh, nothing wasted. My husband spoke again. “What do you think of my body?” “I like it. Your skin’s so fair, and soft.” Why had I never watched this kind of thing before? Boxing, pro wrestling, mixed martial arts—I’d assumed they weren’t for me. How wrong I was. I always do that. I decide who I am, and never consider other possibilities. I’ve been like that since middle school. The time I went to the amusement park with my friends and decided that a quiet girl like me wouldn’t like roller coasters, I was the only one who didn’t get on the ride. Someone like me would obviously sign up for one of the cultural activities at school.”
