Monastery Read online

  More praise for Eduardo Halfon and The Polish Boxer

  “Elegant.” —Marie Claire

  “Engrossing.” —NBC Latino

  “Fantastic . . . Intense pain and beauty are offset by an unabashedly boyish sense of humor.” —NPR Alt.Latino

  “Stimulating and inspiring.” —The Independent

  “A mix of finely nuanced prose and humor.” —World Literature Today

  “Beautiful and provocative . . . a wonderful read which begs to be re-read.” —Jewish Book World

  “A brave and touching and dead stylish examination of the nature of fiction, truth, and lies.” —Dazed & Confused

  “[The Polish Boxer] exists in the no-man’s-land between fiction and memoir. In the end, we decide, this is fable: only the stories are important.” —The Guardian

  “A professor mentors a student, gains wisdom from a Mark Twain scholar, and searches for a Gypsy musician, and that’s only part of the story in this incredible, achingly real yet enigmatic novel.” —San Francisco Chronicle, “Top Shelf” Recommendation from Bay Area independent bookstore Copperfield’s Books

  “[Halfon] has succeeded in warping a modern Balkan mystery into a Holocaust memoir . . . intrinsically blend[ing] fiction with reality in a deeply visceral way.” —The Rumpus

  “A revelation . . . The Polish Boxer is a book of small miracles. . . . For sheer narrative momentum and fascination with the mix of life and books, sex and art, there are echoes of the Chilean master Roberto Bolaño.” —Words Without Borders

  “Halfon passionately and lyrically illustrates the significance of the journey and the beauty of true mystery. The Polish Boxer is sublime and arresting, and will linger with readers who will be sure to revisit it again and again.” —Booklist (starred review)

  “These are the stories of life . . . the question of survival (of both people and cultures) and the way the fictional makes the real bearable and intelligible.” —Publishers Weekly (boxed review)

  “Brilliant . . . opens with one of the best classroom scenes I’ve ever read.” —Shelf Awareness

  “Highly readable and engaging . . . provides readers food for thought about the nature of literary creations.” —Library Journal

  “Eduardo Halfon’s prose is as delicate, precise, and ineffable as precocious art—a lighthouse that illuminates everything.” —Francisco Goldman, author of Say Her Name

  “The Polish Boxer is the most memorable new novel I have read all year—the voice pitch-perfect, the imagery indelible. What a wonderful writer.” —Norman Lebrecht, author of The Song of Names

  “It is not often that one encounters such a mix of personal engagement and literary passion, or pain and tenderness.” —Andrés Neuman, author of Talking to Ourselves and Traveler of the Century

  First Published in the United States in 2014 by

  Bellevue Literary Press, New York

  FOR INFORMATION CONTACT:

  Bellevue Literary Press

  NYU School of Medicine

  550 First Avenue

  OBV A612

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2014 by Eduardo Halfon

  Translation Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Dillman and Daniel Hahn

  The author and translators would like to thank the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and Ledig House for their support in the writing and translation of this book.

  “The Birds Are Back” was originally commissioned by the Inter-American Investment Corporation.

  An earlier version of “White Sand, Black Stone” was first published by Words Without Borders, November 2013.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Halfon, Eduardo, 1971-

  [Monasterio. English]

  Monastery / by Eduardo Halfon ; translated by Lisa Dillman and Daniel Hahn.—

  First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-934137-83-3 (ebook)

  I. Dillman, Lisa, translator. II. Hahn, Daniel, translator. III. Title.

  PQ7499.3.H35M6613 2014

  863’.7—dc23

  2014025360

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  Bellevue Literary Press would like to thank all its generous donors—individuals and foundations—for their support.

  This publication is made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  Book design and composition by Mulberry Tree Press, Inc.

  FIRST EDITION

  135798642

  Contents

  Tel Aviv Was an Inferno

  Bamboo

  The Birds Are Back

  White Sand, Black Stone

  White Smoke

  Surviving Sundays

  Prologue at Saint-Nazaire

  Monastery

  About the Author

  For my sister, for my brother

  A cage went in search of a bird.

  —FRANZ KAFKA

  Tel Aviv Was an Inferno

  Tel Aviv was an inferno. I never figured out if Ben Gurion Airport simply didn’t have air conditioning or if it wasn’t working that day or if perhaps someone had decided not to turn it on so that we tourists would acclimate quickly to the sticky Mediterranean heat. My brother and I were standing, exhausted and bleary-eyed, waiting for our bags to come out. It was almost midnight and the airport no longer seemed like an airport. I was surprised to see that several other passengers, also awaiting their bags, lit up cigarettes, so I took one out myself and lit it and the acrid smoke immediately revived me a bit. My brother stole it from me. He let out a smoky sigh that conveyed both rage and indignation and swore under his breath as he wiped his T-shirt sleeve across his forehead. Neither of us wanted to be there, in Tel Aviv, in Israel.

  OUR LITTLE SISTER HAD DECIDED to get married. She called us in Guatemala from a pay phone to say she’d met an Orthodox Jew from the United States, or actually that the rabbis at her yeshiva had introduced her to an Orthodox Jew from the United States, from New York, from Brooklyn, and that they’d decided—I never quite understood who, whether the rabbis or the two of them—that they should get married. My father snatched the phone away, shouted for a while, tried to dissuade her for another while, and then, resigned, asked or begged her to wait for us, saying we were on our way.

  She’d been living in a women’s yeshiva in Jerusalem, studying the Torah and other rabbinical texts, for nearly two years. At first we all thought it was just a touch of Zion fever, or Hebrew fever, or some juvenile obsession with finding a deeper manifestation of our grandparents’ religion, and that it would eventually pass. But soon her discourse began to evolve. In letters, in phone calls, her words were no longer her own. Her language, as is always the case with the abruptly devout, became increasingly fierce and flippant, a sermon lacking any tolerance whatsoever. She legally changed her name to the Hebrew version. She began sending us photos in which she appeared—sometimes wearing a head scarf, sometimes a wig—covering up her lovely black curls: according to Orthodox Jewish laws and customs, she explained, a woman’s beauty is revealed in her hair, which is a temptation for men, and thus must be hidden. The same with women’s skin. My sister, young and beautiful, now wore only long baggy dresses that didn’t reveal her shoulders, or her neck, or her arms, and certainly not her legs. As though she were a prisoner of her own attire. As though temptation co
uld actually be concealed beneath a baggy dress and a wig. I remember she came back to Guatemala only once during that time, for a visit. She warned us arrogantly that she could no longer touch any man when she greeted him; that she would prepare her own meals, using two sets of dishes she was bringing from Israel, one for dairy and one for meat; that during the twenty-four hours of Shabbat we were forbidden to drive, work, read, flush any toilets but one (whatever), or turn on any lights barring those that she had strategically left on since sundown the previous Friday and that had to remain on until sundown on Saturday. At some point, I recall, the five of us were sitting around the dining room table at my parents’ house, when my sister announced coldly that, as far as she and the Orthodox rabbis and teachers saw it, the four of us were not Jews. My father yelled once or twice. My mother stood and stormed off in tears, and my brother went after her. Well, I replied, at least that’s one thing we agree on.

  THE BLACK LUGGAGE CAROUSEL still wasn’t moving. We’d been waiting for our bags for nearly an hour. Despite the fact that my brother groused every once in a while, none of the other passengers seemed particularly upset, or particularly surprised. Maybe because we all knew that security measures were tighter in Israel. Maybe because after so many hours in the air, you’re just thankful to no longer be crammed into two feet of plane.

  How far from here to the hotel? my brother asked. We still had to catch a taxi to Jerusalem. My parents had arrived a few days earlier to deal with who knows what wedding preparations and had told us that when we came out of the airport, we should take a taxi to Hotel Kadima, in Jerusalem, that it was no more than half an hour away, that they’d be waiting for us there. About half an hour, I was about to say to my brother, when suddenly I was dazzled by a fleet of Lufthansa flight attendants. Five or six girls, all wearing radiant Lufthansa uniforms and yellow Lufthansa caps and smiling enormous Lufthansa smiles. We had flown Lufthansa via Frankfurt, where the plane—first while parked at the gate, then during its slow taxi to takeoff—was defended and escorted by two German patrol cars and a military tank.

  The five or six flight attendants all headed for a passenger who was leaning up against a huge beer poster, smoking. I felt an immediate pang of guilt. I crushed my cigarette out on the floor. The man—maybe fifty, bald, fat, pale, sweaty, in shorts and rubber sandals—showed them his passport and ticket as he began arguing loudly, in Hebrew or Arabic. One of the girls held the man’s documents and, judging by her face and gestures, seemed to be telling him to accompany them someplace. But the man just shouted louder and louder. Two soldiers, dressed in green and toting machine guns, appeared out of nowhere and stationed themselves on either side of the man. One of the soldiers was insisting the man surrender his backpack, but the man clasped it tightly to his chest and appeared to be shouting that he’d never give it up alive, or at least not without a good fight. The black carousel had begun to turn; the first bags were coming out. Not one of the passengers cared. We all stared at the man with curiosity and fear and a touch of expectation. Several passengers even approached, out of nosiness, just in case, to help or to lend the flight attendants their support if need be. But suddenly, in what was clearly an expert and premeditated move, the two soldiers grabbed the man, threw him to the ground, cuffed him, and dragged him off as he continued shouting in Hebrew or Arabic. That easy. That quick.

  Several of the Lufthansa flight attendants then left as well. But two of them stood in the same spot, whispering among themselves and calming down several of the passengers. My brother looked at me, gaping, eyes wide open, shaking his head slowly. Perhaps thinking: Nice welcome. Or perhaps thinking: Where the fuck have we landed? I shrugged.

  We walked slowly back to the carousel, which was creaking and screeching, but creaking and screeching with poise, with grace, like a grandiose relic of some sort. I don’t know why I turned once more to look back at the two Lufthansa flight attendants. Nor do I know why—although I assume the yellow gleam of the uniform had something to do with it—it took me so long to recognize her.

  It can’t be, I said to my brother, excited, grabbing onto his arm. What? he asked. Look, I said. Look at what? There, the flight attendant, I said, signaling with my eyes. I think it’s her, I said. Think it’s who? Perhaps he was still dazzled by the yellow Lufthansa uniforms, or he didn’t recognize her, or he’d never actually met her and I’d only told him about her. The flight attendant, I said, signaling with my eyes again. Yeah, I see her, what about her? I let go of his arm and stood staring at her for a few seconds, doubting, or maybe fearful. I think it’s Tamara, I said. Who? Tamara, I repeated, a bit surprised to have remembered her name after so long, a name that now sounded sublime, foreign, fictional even.

  My brother gazed at her for a few seconds, struggling to rewind the years, to recall, to place himself in the past and sift through all those dusty images. That’s crazy, he said, impossible. How could it be her? It’s her, I said, studying her eyes and her lips and her pale freckled cheeks and her copper hair streaked with gray. Her hair’s shorter and grayer now, but that’s Tamara, I said, nearly convinced and starting slowly in her direction. Wait, where are you going? my brother said from behind me, the bags are starting to come out. Could it be her? Could it really be Tamara? Would she recognize me after all those years? Would she remember me? Would she hug me or kiss me or maybe even slap me? Don’t do it, my brother shouted over the creaking carousel, it’s not her.

  Tamara? I said, touching her shoulder.

  IT WAS ONE IN THE MORNING when my brother and I finally stepped onto the sidewalk outside the airport. There were multiple taxis, from multiple companies, in multiple colors. Without much thought, we approached a red-and-white minivan that looked a bit more official and said to the driver: Hotel Kadima, in Jerusalem. The guy, looking angry and harried and motioning to the back, said yes, yes, Kadima, Yerushalayim. We opened the minivan’s rear doors, stashed our bags, walked back around, and got in through the side door. In the first row sat a couple of French tourists who I assumed were also going to Hotel Kadima in Jerusalem. We said hello, taking our seats behind them in the second row, exhausted.

  So? my brother asked again, impatient. The taxi driver was shouting at someone over the radio. I began to find it odd that he didn’t close his door, didn’t start the engine so we could get moving. Are you going to tell me or not? my brother asked, his eyes half-closed and his tone confrontational. I leaned back against the headrest. Scarlet, I told him.

  Before I saw her timid smile, before I saw her blue Mediterranean eyes widen, I knew Tamara finally recognized me as soon as I saw the minuscule freckles on her cheeks disappear in a sudden scarlet flush. But from then on, it was all awkward. We hugged awkwardly. We asked and answered each other’s questions awkwardly, with clichés, with the animated chaos and apprehension that came of having our little reunion in public, amid all the passengers and the suitcases and the stifling heat of the airport and the obvious gravity of her Lufthansa uniform, interrupting each other and stumbling over each other in an attempt to sum up all those years in a few seconds. Then we fell silent awkwardly, each of us perhaps thinking of a brief and distant encounter we thought we’d left behind but which was suddenly back and erupting with the force of a volcano. She asked me in English how long I was going to be in Israel, and I stammered and said a few days, just a few days, just for my little sister’s wedding, and yes, an Orthodox wedding, and yes, in Jerusalem, and yes, at Hotel Kadima. Her Lufthansa colleague called her, as if to hurry her up, and Tamara said something to her in Hebrew. Then she took out a scrap of paper and scribbled down her phone number and said that I should call her, that she lived very close to Hotel Kadima, that she could pick me up and take me to see some sights. Okay, Eduardo? she asked, pronouncing my name as though it weren’t my name or as though it were a version of my name that was hers alone, and sending me back to a Scottish bar and a few beers and a heart-shaped mouth and nipples that were to be bitten hard or soft, it all depended. Okay? she said ag
ain, and leaned close. She handed me the slip of paper. She pressed her freckled scarlet cheek to mine and left it there. Please do call, she whispered, now not awkwardly at all and in a tone that conveyed much more than those three words. I liked the contrast of her warm breath and her cold cheek. I liked that I recognized her scent. I folded the slip of paper and stuck it into my shirt pocket. Will you call? she asked, and took a few steps backward. Absolutely, I said, this time I will. You can count on it, and I gave her a slight smile, and then Tamara said something in Hebrew, perhaps good-bye, perhaps you’d better, and walked off with her Lufthansa colleague.

  So will you call? asked my brother, who for over an hour had been dozing off and on and cursing me, the taxi driver, the military detritus left like decor all along the highway, the French tourists, the labyrinthine and never-ending nocturnal odyssey to our Jerusalem hotel. I don’t know, I said shaking my head in vain into the darkness of a minivan now with no other passengers. One of the five previous passengers, a young Israeli returning from Peru, had explained to us in Spanish that this was a collective taxi, called a sherut. I fell silent, recalling Tamara’s flushed face, recalling Tamara’s lavender scent, and recalling with a start the white gold on her left ring finger.

  Had she been wearing a white-gold ring? Had I, in fact, seen it, or was I imagining it now, in the silence of an empty minivan? Had she gotten married?

  When we finally pulled up in front of the hotel, it was three in the morning.

  I ALWAYS SLEEP POORLY IN HOTELS. I had asked the receptionist, as I usually do, for a room on the top floor, one that wasn’t overlooking the noisy street, as far as possible from the elevator, with no inner door connecting it to an adjoining room. But whether by mistake or misunderstanding, the curmudgeonly old man informed us in his abominable English that he had only one room available, with a king-size bed. We were both too tired to protest. We just took the key in silence and rode up in the tiny, rickety old elevator.