These “stories are deft and quietly (and sometimes deeply) unsettling, and the sense of the characters’ lostness is at once palpable and relatable.”
— Brian Evenson
The Irreparable is a collection of six stories by Venezuelan author Gabriel Payares, translated into English for the first time by Paul Filev. The characters of these stories are alienated from themselves and from the people around them—puppets of the sometimes mundane, sometimes violent plot that controls their lives. They have either migrated or been left behind by others who have, unsure where they stand. For some of Payares’ worst-off characters, there is nowhere for anyone to go. In “For Elisa,” the narrator watches “our hero” try to use the chaos caused by the military’s repression of anti-austerity protests to his own advantage. But the advantage he gains is fleeting, and the violence of the day quickly takes over. In “The Fish Tank,” a similarly detached eye watches as a couple face a challenge they cannot overcome. It is a story with no identifiable setting beyond a hospital and a home, and is the most removed from any discussion of Venezuela’s crisis or migration, but it remains infused with the sense of fragmentation and detachment that pervades the whole collection. In Filev’s translation, Payares’ language is spare, natural, and uncomplicated, trapping the reader in a series of unrelenting, unsettling dreams.
***
Clichés
With my wolf’s hunger
I haul my lamb’s body
down.
Giuseppe Ungaretti
I like looking through my camera, even when there’s nothing to photograph. Things are not always as interesting as one would hope. It’s my hiding place, where I can watch others without being seen myself. I’ll admit, it’s the old cliché of the photographer as voyeur. I used to think I came into this world to serve as a witness and not to have a leading role. I’m not sure I think that anymore. As far as I was concerned, there were already more than enough leading players in the world. People who aren’t afraid to look others in the eye and who take whatever they want from life. Not like the rest of us, who approach things sideways, on a tangent, with our faces camouflaged or covered up like thieves. That’s probably why I like Carnival: the noise and confusion of the crowds, merging and splintering at random, like this troupe here, advancing in my direction in sync with the music and each other. A fanfare blares, propelling the masses forward, liquor bottles raised high above their mouths as if imitating the trumpet players. Amid the hubbub, six or seven dancing devils, frenzied sprites, entice the tourists into dancing along with them. I like these little devils. They’re similar but not the same as the Dancing Devils of Corpus Christi in Venezuela. I like the fact that you can spend hours dancing, sweating, and rubbing up against them and never know what lies hidden behind the masks and colorful costumes with little mirrors sewn onto them. Or the real voices behind the cartoon ones they speak with. I was wary of them at first, the way small dogs are wary around strangers. But then I raise my camera and boom, problem solved. I’m now invisible. Masked behind my camera, I can join right in and be part of the group. I watch them through the viewfinder and press the shutter button once, twice, many times.
I came to photography when I realized I would never write a novel. I wanted to write but lacked the patience for it. The same went for painting or playing a musical instrument. I think I was hungry for everything, but unwilling to give writing and painting the time they demanded. I was too restless to study the same subject for five years or work in the same place until something better came along. And I especially did not want to sleep with the same guy for the rest of my life. Maybe it was just a lack of maturity. I similarly came to Argentina after realizing it wasn’t lovers I was looking to accumulate, but miles, borders, and rubber stamps in my passport instead. Another cliché perhaps, the travel photographer. Well, it can’t be helped. I gave up on the idea of being original a long time ago. It comes at a high cost and involves a lot of suffering in the process.
I decided to try my luck in Buenos Aires first, where a bunch of my friends had already fled to: professionals who’d gotten out of Venezuela in time and who’d offered me a bed or a couch in exchange for a packet of coffee or P.A.N.-brand cornmeal. Some were happily married, others plagued by either loneliness or a rampant inferiority complex. It was all the same to me. I stayed with each of them in turn, slept with some, and eventually got fed up with that too. I just couldn’t stand the fake Caracas they were trying to set up in the neighborhood of Palermo, seeking refuge from the childish arrogance of the locals, the Porteños. Plus I wasn’t comfortable talking about Venezuela all the time. Nor was I interested in adopting the local accent to try to blend in. I knew that sooner or later I would have to leave. And to be honest, I had no problem waving goodbye to the place. There wasn’t that much to miss about a city that was so indifferent to the rest of the world. And so one day I sold all my things, bought myself a backpack and a tent, and began my journey back home by land, determined to brave and explore a bit more of the continent. Later I realized I wasn’t the only one with this ambition: it was the clichéd trip that most middle-class Argentine hippies made too. Which makes sense.
That’s how I met Ximena and Martín, a fun and cheerful couple who were traveling together. He was from Buenos Aires, a Porteño, and she a Rosarina (from Rosario), like the title of a song by some Argentine rock band. They were flexitarians as well as environmental activists for both indigenous and “Latin American” causes, although they hadn’t the faintest idea what those causes were. They possessed just the right amount of naivety and pretension to come off as kind and even tender, but at the same time arrogant as well. They were also both extremely attractive, with that slightly steely elegance of Europeans, or of those who think of themselves as coming from over there. Nothing whatsoever like the vulgar Caribbeans. In the few days I spent with them, I learned all about Monsanto’s GMO seeds, the horrors of PepsiCo, and various other atrocities that one would rather not know about. They showed no interest in Venezuela (they thought that Hugo Chávez was still in power) and in truth that suited me just fine. They had just come from Patagonia when we met, halfway through on their trip to La Quiaca, each carrying a huge backpack from which hung pots and pans, shoes, and a rolled up double tent. We met at a campsite. I was surprised to learn that neither of them had a camera or even a diary to note down their impressions of the landscapes they encountered. Even worse, when I asked about what they had seen, they would describe it in just a few sentences, usually summing it up with the word “incredible” and a ditzy laugh. We hit it off so well together that the next morning I half-jokingly volunteered to be their personal photographer. And it wasn’t such a bad idea, given how interesting they both were as individuals. They had escaped that tendency of long-term couples to become alike and do away with any striking contrasts that may have existed between them. They took my offer as a joke and poked fun at it by doing “artistic” poses at every moment. One gesture with the camera and they would strike a silly pose and ruin my picture. I let them have their fun anyway and took the shots no matter how they turned out in the end.
They told me all about La Quebrada de Humahuaca, extolling the virtues of the mountain valley with its “incredible” landscapes, “incredible” people, and their “incredible” traditions. Martín, above all, seemed to be an expert on the subject, having lived for a few months in that part of the valley that straddles the Bolivian border. Anyway, they spoke with such enthusiasm about it that no further descriptions were needed to entice me to go see it. It was a long way from here to Jujuy, they said, but it would still be possible to make it there in time for Carnival season. We just had to pick up the travel pace and cut down the itinerary. “Incredible,” I replied, signing on to go with them. They celebrated by wrapping their arms around me in a group hug. I’d have gone with them wherever they were going.
We traveled mostly by bus, although we also did quite a bit of walking and hitchhiking too, nightfall taking us by surprise as we thumbed a ride along the highway. None of this broke the sense of herd loyalty that the group hug had sealed between us: together we ate only those things that appealed to the three of us, together we made decisions at roundtable discussions, and together we prepared maté at that vague hour of the afternoon reserved for drinking maté, not coffee or any other beverage. Ximena was the expert and she would prepare it with religious devotion and the utmost attention to detail. That’s probably why I always accepted their invitation, even though the drink didn’t excite me in the least. On the other hand, the ritual of steeping the dried leaves in hot water and then all drinking from the same straw made me feel part of an intimate and indispensable tribal order.
The magic would last until bedtime. Ximena was always the first to call it a day, stretching and yawning like a cat. She would be all over Martín, tickling, biting, and scratching him until she killed any possibility of further conversation, and marched the poor man off to their tent. We would bid each other goodnight and no one would speak again until dawn. I would stay up for a little while longer, sometimes thinking or just staring at the sky, but mostly trying to figure out if that scene was the prelude to a night of passion between them. I liked to imagine them, only a few feet away in their tent, lying on top of each other on the grassy ground of the campsite, biting their lips to keep from making a noise when they came. I felt flattered by this imaginary effort on their part to stay quiet, to try to keep me from guessing what they were up to, as if they were doing it with me constantly in mind. The thing is, I never heard a single moan or gasp from either one of them, not even that hoarse sound that lips make when sucking. Either they were experts at having sex in total silence or they felt far less desire for each other than it seemed at first sight. I would eventually go to bed, wet and disappointed, wondering if Ximena’s love bites would happen in my absence too or if they were another form of clichéd behavior, another pose they did just for my camera.
Translated by Paul Filev
Published with the permission of Spurl Editions
The Irreparables is available now from Spurl Editions.
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