The Polish Boxer
THE POLISH BOXER
Eduardo Halfon
translated by Ollie Brock, Lisa Dillman, Thomas Bunstead, Anne McLean and Daniel Hahn
PUSHKIN PRESS
LONDON
I have moved the typewriter into the next room where I can see myself in the mirror as I write.
—HENRY MILLER
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
Distant
Twaining
Epistrophy
White Smoke
The Polish Boxer
Postcards
Ghosts
The Pirouette
A Speech at Póvoa
Sunsets
About the Author
The Translators
Also Available from Pushkin Press
About the Publisher
Copyright
Distant
I was pacing among them, moving up and down between the rows of desks as if trying to find my way out of a labyrinth. We were reading from a Ricardo Piglia essay. We read about the dual nature of the short story, and it didn’t surprise me, as I looked out, to be met with a sea of faces covered in acne and heartfelt bewilderment. We read that a story always tells two stories. We read that the visible narrative always hides a secret tale. The story’s construction makes something hidden appear artificially, we read, and then I asked them if they’d understood it, any of it, but it was as though I were speaking some Bantu language. Silence. But rashly, undaunted, I stepped further into the labyrinth. Several of them were dozing. Others were doodling. An overly thin girl toyed with her long blond locks, absentmindedly coiling and uncoiling a twist of hair around an index finger. Beside her, a pretty-boy eyed her lasciviously. And from within that vast silence, I heard the drone of tittering and whispering and gum chewing and then, as I did every year, I asked myself if this shit was really worth it.
I don’t know what I was doing trying to teach literature to a horde of college kids who were, for the most part, illiterate. Each fall, they’d register for their first year, still emanating a sort of doleful puppy-dog air. Looking like lost sheep, yet smugly convinced that they weren’t, that they knew everything there was to know, that they possessed the most absolute understanding of the secrets governing the universe. Who cared about literature? Who cared about one more course with one more stupid jackass spouting even more stupid bullshit about books, and oh books are so wonderful, and books are so important, yeah, whatever, dream on, but me, I’m fine with no books and no jackass who still thinks literature matters. They were thinking something like that, I suppose. And I suppose, too, that seeing them sit there year after year with those same self-satisfied expressions, those haughty yet ignorant looks on their faces, I understood them perfectly, and even almost conceded their point, and recognized in them some trace of myself.
It’s like the stars.
I turned around and saw a thin, dark-skinned kid whose fragile features made me think for some reason of a rosebush—not a rosebush in bloom, but a sad, spindly rosebush with not a single rose on it. Several students giggled.
Excuse me?
It’s like the stars, he said again, softly. I asked him his name. Juan Kalel, he replied just as quietly, without looking at me. I asked him to explain what he meant by that, and he sat in silence for a moment, as if ordering his thoughts. Well, stars are stars, he said timidly, and again came the tittering, but I asked him to please continue. I mean, the stars in the sky are the stars that we see, but they’re also something more, something that we can’t see but that’s still there. I said nothing, giving him space, giving him time to elaborate. If we arrange them, they become constellations, he murmured, which represent zodiac signs, which in turn represent each one of us. I replied that was all well and good, but what did it have to do with a story? He was silent again, and while he thought, I sauntered back to the desk where I’d left my milky coffee and took a long, tepid sip. What I mean is, he continued falteringly, as if each word pained him, a story is something we see, something we read, but if we arrange it, it becomes something else too, something we can’t see but that’s still there, between the lines, implicit.
The other students sat in silence, staring at Juan Kalel as though he were a freak, awaiting my reaction. I considered the metaphysical and aesthetic ramifications of his words, the many implications that even Juan Kalel himself probably wasn’t aware of. But I made no comment. Instead, between sips of coffee, I simply smiled at him.
After class, back in the faculty lounge, I poured more coffee into my paper cup, lit a cigarette, and began leafing distractedly through the newspaper. A psychology professor, a woman by the name of Gómez or González or something, sat down beside me and asked what class I was teaching. Literature, I said. Wow, tough, she replied, though I have no idea why. She wore too much makeup and her hair was dyed a weary shade of ocher, the color of a kinkajou or an abandoned doll. The rim of her cup was already kiss-marked red. And what are the kiddies reading? she asked a bit too jovially. She actually called them kiddies. I stared at her with as much solemnity and intolerance as I could muster and, exhaling a cloud of smoke, told her that for now we were doing a few Donald Duck and Pluto stories. Well, she said, and that was all she said.
I spent the next few days thinking about Juan Kalel. I’d managed to find out that he was on a full scholarship, in his first year, and majoring in economics. He was seventeen years old and a native of Tecpán, a beautiful city of artichokes and fir trees in Guatemala’s western altiplano region, though calling it a city might be a bit of a stretch and calling them fir trees might be a bit optimistic. Everything about Juan Kalel was out of sync with the other students in my class and, of course, the whole university. His sensitivity and eloquence. His interest. His appearance and social status.
As is the case at many private Latin American universities, the vast majority of students from Francisco Marroquín University come from wealthy families, or families who think they’re wealthy and therefore also think they’ve got their children’s economic futures all sewn up. As a consequence, their degrees become mere trinkets, awarded to prove that some family custom or other has been followed, and to stifle gossip. In fact, you could easily claim that the disdainful, pedantic attitude you see there is actually more pronounced in the first-year students whom I, with unmistakable fatigue, had to accept into my classes each year. I’m generalizing, and perhaps recklessly, but the world can only be understood through generalizations.
From time to time, however, out of that great mass of falsehood and hypocrisy, there appears (to expand on his metaphor) a shooting star like Juan Kalel, who has vocation and devotion and a passion for all types of learning, which stems from a genuine need and not some pathetic and deplorable sophism, and who, by saying a few words, exposes the falsehood and hypocrisy not just of the other students, but sometimes even of the professor and his stuffy ivory tower.
The first author on the syllabus was Edgar Allan Poe, a logical jumping-off point, I think, given that it was a contemporary short story course. I’d asked them to read two of his stories, “The Purloined Letter” and “The Black Cat,” thereby enabling us to cover his detective stories with one and suspense fiction with the other.
At the beginning of class, a pudgy girl raised her hand and said she hadn’t liked the stories at all. Fine, I said, that’s your right, but tell us why. To which she simply replied, making a disgusted face: Just really gross. A few people laughed; others seconded her opinion. Yeah, really gross. So I explained to them that taste has to be accompanied by a more refined understanding, that most of the time we dislike something simply because we don’t understand it, haven’t really made an effort to understand it, and the easiest response is just to
claim we haven’t liked it and wash our hands of the whole affair. You’ve got to develop criteria, I said, exercise your ability to analyze and synthesize, and not just spit out empty opinions. You’ve got to learn to read past the words, I said, rather poetically, I believe, though no doubt all I did was confuse them further. I spent the rest of the period fleshing out the intricacies of both stories, the almost invisible network of symbolism Poe had cast just beneath the surface of each text like a supporting framework. Any questions? I asked after wrapping up. And a boy with long hair asked, as someone does each year, if authors like Poe did that on purpose, like, wove a second story line, a secret narrative into the gaps in the visible one, or if it just came out spontaneously. And as I did every year, I said that you’d have to ask him, but that in my opinion, therein lay the difference between a writer and a great writer: the ability to be saying one thing when in reality you were expressing another, the ability to use language as a means of accessing a sublime, ephemeral metalanguage. Like a ventriloquist? he asked. Yes, I suppose so, I said, although later, when I gave it some more thought, I regretted having said it.
After class, the pudgy girl came up as I was gathering my things. I still don’t like the stories, she said. I smiled and asked her her name. Ligia Martínez. That’s all right, Ligia, neither Poe nor I are offended. But I will say, professor, that I understand them better now, and I reproached her for calling me professor. I’m sorry, doctor, she said, and I chided her again. He doesn’t like to be called doctor or professor, said a girl waiting for her by the exit, someone I hadn’t seen before. What should I call you, then? Ligia asked. Just call him Eduardo, the other girl said with a slight smile, and I saw that she had eyes the color of molasses, or at least that’s how they looked to me at that moment, in that light. So listen, Ligia said, I wanted to ask you why there aren’t more women writers on the syllabus. There’s only one, Eduardo, this O’Conolly or whatever. Doesn’t that seem, like, politically incorrect? she asked with a hint of malice. And I gave her the same reply I give every year. There are also no black writers, Ligia, or Asian writers, or midget writers, and as far as I’m aware, there’s only one gay writer. I told her that my courses were politically incorrect, thank God. In other words, Ligia, they’re honest. Just like art. Great short story writers, period. She said fine, that she was just curious, and left with her friend.
Juan Kalel was waiting for me outside class, leaning against the wall, alone. Do you have a minute, Halfon? he asked, pronouncing my last name in a very odd way, as if it were somehow stressed on both syllables. I said of course I did, and then I said I was surprised at how silent he’d been in class. I wanted to speak to you, he said, ignoring my comment and staring down at the ground. I saw then that he had an enormous purple scar on his right cheek. Like he’d been whacked with a machete, I thought. And then I thought briefly of the white pockmarks on that black wall at Auschwitz that my Polish grandfather had told me about. Juan took a folded-up piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It’s a poem, Halfon. I asked him if he wanted me to read it right then, and he said no, startled, backing up a couple of steps, later, please, whenever you have a little time. I’d be happy to, Juan, and I was going to shake his hand, but he kept backing up, slowly, as he proffered thanks without ever looking at me.
They read Maupassant’s “The Horla.”
Before I began, I asked all those who hadn’t liked the story to put up their hands. Six hands rose timidly. Then seven. Eight. All right, you eight come up to the front of the class, I said, and they sauntered casually up to the front of the group until at last they formed a sort of crooked line of suspects. Tell us what you didn’t like about it. First one: I don’t know. Second: Well, I didn’t finish it, so I just didn’t like it. Third: It’s totally impossible to understand, the author doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t like people who don’t make sense. Fourth: Too long. Fifth: Too long. (Laughter.) Sixth: I felt sorry for the crazy guy. Seventh: I only like positive stories, stories that inspire me and make me want to live, not just depress me. Eighth: Yeah, same here, it made me feel bad, and who wants to feel bad? I remained silent, glancing from them to the rest of the class, trying to let something sink in without my having to say it outright. Not a chance. So I thanked them, told them they could sit down, and slowly proceeded to analyze the story, point out the most important elements and recurring themes, the many phrases that were like beautiful doors leading into a secret story. A difficult read, elliptical, perhaps incomprehensible, but magisterial nonetheless.
See you next week, I said when I’d finished. Señor Kalel, would you stay behind, please? And after answering a few individual questions from other students and gathering my things, I asked Juan to go with me to have a cigarette in the cafeteria. He just nodded. A man of few words, Juan Kalel.
We walked in silence, a pleasant silence, natural, like in a silent movie when it’s not actually silence but just the normal state of affairs. I bought two coffees and then we went and sat down at the farthest table. I lit a cigarette. Maupassant’s really good, Juan whispered as I stirred in my sugar. An architecture professor walked over to say hello, but I didn’t stand, so he left right away. Juan had burned his mouth on the coffee and was gingerly fingering his lips. I really like that image of the stalk bent by an invisible hand, he said with such overwhelming sadness that I thought he might be on the verge of tears. Me too, though I’m not sure why, I replied, reaching for the ashtray. So, Juan, I read your poem, and then I stopped and took tiny sips of my coffee. He was still blowing into his. I told him it was really quite good. Juan looked up and said he knew. We both smiled. I bit down lightly on my cigarette so that I could pull the poem from the pocket of my green leather bag, and then reread it in silence. What about the title? I asked. It doesn’t have one, he replied, I don’t believe in titles. They’re a necessary evil, Juan. Maybe, but I still don’t believe in them. He paused. Like you, Halfon, he added with a wry smile, you don’t seem to believe in personal titles. Touché, señor, I replied, and as I stubbed out my cigarette, I asked him if he had other poems, if he’d written any more. He was still blowing into his coffee. Without looking up, he told me he’d written that one in my class the other day, while I was discussing Poe’s stories. He said he wrote poems whenever he felt something very strongly, no matter where he was, although the poem was always about something very different from what he was feeling. He said he had notebooks full of poems at home. He said I was the first person to read one.
Two days later, I got an e‑mail from the girl with molasses eyes. Her name was Ana María Castillo, but she signed off with a syrupy Annie. Immediately I pictured the redheaded orphan with ringlets, even though this girl was tall and pale, with straight hair, astonishingly shoe-polish black.
Her note was short and, to my surprise, flawlessly composed. In it, she said that she hadn’t liked the Maupassant story either, but that she’d been ashamed to admit it in front of the class. That’s why I’m writing, she said. To explain why I didn’t like it. First, I want you to know that I read it twice, just as you say we should, and that I understood it, or at least part of it. But that’s not why I didn’t like it. The reason I didn’t like it is because I identified so strongly with the protagonist. Sometimes I feel that lonely too, and I don’t know what to do about it, how to handle it. I guess we hate seeing what we really are.
I replied to her that same night, and the tone of my e‑mail was more petulant than I’d realized. Congratulations, I wrote. That’s the correct way to read a story: letting yourself be dragged along in the author’s wake. It matters not whether the waters are calm or stormy. What counts is having the courage and confidence to dive in headfirst. And that’s when literature, and art in general, becomes a sort of mirror, Annie, a mirror in which all of our perfections and imperfections are reflected. And, yes, some of them are frightening. Others are painful. Fiction is funny that way, isn’t it? A story is nothing but a lie. An illusion. And that illusion only w
orks if we trust in it. The same way a magic trick impresses us even though we know perfectly well that it’s a trick. The rabbit doesn’t actually disappear. The woman hasn’t actually been sawed in half. But we believe it. The illusion is real, oxymoronically. Plato wrote that literature is a deceit in which he who deceives is more honest than he who does not deceive, and he who allows himself to be deceived is wiser than he who does not.
Next came Chekhov. They read three relatively short stories and I gathered no one understood a word. Or maybe no one read them. Frustrated, I gave them a test for the remainder of the period, and sat before them enthralled, reading one of Juan Kalel’s notebooks.
After class, Juan was there when I left, leaning against the wall again, waiting for me. We walked to the cafeteria, and this time he insisted on buying the coffee. I thanked him. Once we’d sat down, I pulled out his notebook and placed it on the table and lit a cigarette. I asked him what he was doing studying economics, but he just shrugged, and we both knew it was a ridiculous question. What does your family do in Tecpán? My father tends an orchard in Pamanzana, just outside of Tecpán, he said, and my mother works in a textile factory. No siblings? Three sisters, all younger. He told me his scholarship covered housing too, paying for a room in a student residence in the city. What about you, Halfon, why did you study engineering? Because I was a fool, I said, and then we sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking coffee while I smoked and wondered about his family life. He was incongruous, Juan Kalel. Sometimes he seemed to radiate the most absolute innocence, an utter naïveté, as genuine and obvious as the scar on his cheek. But other times he gave the impression of understanding everything, of having lived and suffered through things that most of us come to know only through reading or supposition or puerile theories. Without smiling, he seemed always to be smiling, and without crying, he seemed to have indelible tears on his cheeks. I asked him who his favorite poets were and he said Rimbaud and Pessoa and Rilke. Especially Rilke, he said. I don’t see much Rilke in your poems, Juan, or at least not in the ones I’ve read so far. Rilke is in all of my poems, he said, and I didn’t ask him why, although much later I would come to understand perfectly. You don’t write poetry? he asked. Never, I said, stubbing out my cigarette, and I was going to say that I didn’t consider myself a poet, that in my opinion, to be a poet you have to believe you are one, be born one, whereas a prose writer can slowly evolve—but in the end I didn’t manage to say anything at all. Someone greeted me from behind, and when I turned, I found myself looking into Annie Castillo’s molasses eyes, which is simply a figure of speech, because the only thing molasses about them was a mistaken memory. Still, I stood up.