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TRUYỆN
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GROUNDFLOOR OF HEAVEN
AU REZ-DE-CHAUSSÉE DU PARADIS
AU REZ-DE-CHAUSSÉE DU PARADIS
by BUI HOANG VI
GROUNDFLOOR OF HEAVEN
Translated 2002 by Bùi Hoằng Vị
Groundfloor. Indoors. There is no furniture other than a bookcase against the wall, a desk next to the bookcase, and two chairs at the desk.
There are only two beings, whose wings are falling off and dirty looking as if having not been even once used to fly. One of them, with large and baggy buttocks, is standing on tiptoe on one end of the desk, gluing an ear to the transistor radio made in Hell, hidden on the bookcase top, seeming to be attentively listening, yet, from time to time, turning around her pale face with two weary eyes, sighing; the other - sitting at the desk, bending his head, writing something continuously without a stop. The lines of his words are overflowing the floor, making it four inches flooded, and spreading swiftly to the drains outdoors. The atmosphere is stuffy, a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage,…
I beg you. The standing one repeats, her voice being sad. What have you been writing like that for?
The other gives no reply, apparently being quite absorbed.
Oh no! Her voice sounds even sadder. It can’t be so. I can’t believe it.
Pardon? The answering voice being indifferent.
I can’t believe it!
But believe what?
It can’t be so merry. It’s already supposed to be very unhappy down there!
The writing one raises his head, at last, still looking quite indifferent, though. The transistor radio is emitting the sounds of the nine channels of the VOH, the Voice of Hell, one by one.
He raises his head, at last, when she starts turning the radio button, searching for Channel One, VOHell. A symphony is being played by the anuses. He stops writing, but with no intention to listen, just in order to have an inattentive look to the right; there, another piece of gray lime has just dropped off the dirty wall, on which there are plenty of words such as Dieu, Love, Rai,… scribbled clumsily in chalk and charcoal, around a sketch, even more clumsily made, of a portrait of God, with a look which is at the same time respectable and suspectable, and a halo of dirty color. Yes, a halo!
The symphony stops. The program is continued with a professional voice: … Following is the latest news. Just recently we have received twelve more beings with wings. One of them reported that they had fled the darkness of some medieval Heaven, some unequally sad nation. They were all exhausted. Some of them were dead. Now there has been found no measure which can help the others to cheer up a little bit. We would like to bow respectfully before them all. We respect any sorrow of Heaven,… He yawns.
The scratching sound from the radio button. She is tuning in to Channel Two. An essay is being half read: … Obviously, the most callous yet most faithful mission of consciousness is to betray, after all, and, quite unfortunately , that is the only means of saving the Truth,… He still doesn’t feel like listening at all. His ears are paying attention to the sounds echoed from some floor above, in the building - some quarreling, harshly nagging voices, some shouting, and then some dry cries,… His eyes are looking out of the window. Out there, a wind is making a cloud of dust rise and whirl. The sky is sombre. There is a gray tornado still suspending somewhere, he knows.
Channel Three. Some news about the latest scientific discoveries. … An experiment has just been successfully performed on… His staring eyes are fixed at the window while he is trying to imagine something serious - a laboratory, for example, with the test tubes and the white coats,… He tries until he feels headache and, at last, shakes his head. Ah, once more he realizes very soon that no serious image can survive in his conscious field. However, that’s all right, ultimately speaking. Those things, no matter how serious they may be, have nothing to do with him, sitting here, in a stuffy chaos a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage!
The radio tuner continues its scratching sound. It is being turned enthusiastically, again. Channel Four. The Timeless Sreeeeaming Voice. He lays the pen down. That is the very word he really doesn’t want to hear. Time!
Channel Five. The zero o’clock news. It’s time again! What is that? Isn’t it the concept attached to each time zone, which some herd of tailed-beings content themselves with and take turns gnawing at? Thus, he can’t share it with them. Here, where he resides, morning or night, on sunny or on rainy days, in the little hot or in the very hot season, the only lamp on that ceiling is always on, just like a sickly yellow eye, vertically hung and never shut, and, in its chronically sickly yellow, haunting light, he can’t tell what time it is. His time here is immeasurable, limitless, or twisted and condensed, in some way, which he can’t describe with a worldly and imperfect language; it should be experienced and interpreted by means of some absolutely transcendental categories, which are quite beyond the reach of both his consciousness and imagination. Ah, time! Since very long, he has stopped being aware of it.
The news bulletin suddenly pulls him back to the radio: … It is rumored that , on the ground floor of Heaven, from his false sorrow, a winged-being is letting his verses overwhelm and make flood all the drains…
She turns around, with her reproaching voice.
They are speaking about you. Her eyes seem to be wearier.
He listens, looking quite sad.
No. They’re mistaken. My sorrow is real.
And he hangs his head, seeming to be very sad, looking at the lines of words being shed ceaselessly. How can they understand what he is doing here? Oh well, forget it; he shouldn’t care. When he is writing, he alone is the counterpoise of the world, he himself develops into a world of his own…
Channel Six. The creaking noise of a bed. The panting breaths mingled with the soft, encouraging hisses,…
I heard that the she-devils down there are very beautiful, is that right? Her gloomy voice sounds like groaning.
Not at all. He mumbles, his head still hanging. It’s been proved that the female beings with a tail down there have to sit for hours in front of the mirror, painting again and again the contour of the openings on their face with the cosmetics of extra fine quality. They must be ugly.
But she still doesn’t seem to be appeased. Her trembling fingers go on torturing the radio tuner.
Channel Seven. The sounds of clinking glasses. Laughter. Compliments. A merry making party. Well! Come on! Cheers! On the 1991st death anniversary of… He can’t help , once more, looking out of the window. In the distance, at the end of his eyeshot, across a treeless deserted field, there is a big mound which is named The Tomb of God. As for him, he has never called it that way. It is so offensive for the heart to see it today, full of patches of dirty yellow weeds. He always thinks that it is supposed to be flagged with chilly marble slabs, resting in peace and quiet, under the dense shade of the evergreens…
Channel Eight. Salvos of choking laughter.
She keeps on turning again and again the radio button, hopelessly, and at last, bursts into tears.
Oh no! She leans her front against the bookcase, her shoulders trembling. I can’t believe it!
Come on! Patiently he says, involuntarily groping for the pen.
Again, he bends his head, writing at full stretch. And his words, again, overflow the floor, flooding it, and spreading swiftly everywhere, the greatest part down into the drains reeking of rats, of cockroaches, and of… , only a little part rising and whirling with the wind, glittering in the cloud of dust. There is still a gray tornado suspending somewhere outside,… The atmosphere is really stuffy.
He wishes that she would tune in to Channel Nine. But without much hope. She will never choose to listen to Channel Nine, nor will she ever turn them all off. She would rather be all the time tuning in and, going on like that, enthusiastically drawing the scratching sound out, as if forever. That’s better, anyway. She says. I hate Channel Nine. Yes, he knows, there is emitted only an Eternal Silence there. But, for his part, how he craves for it!
From some floor above in the building can be heard a resounding voice, which is now drowning the stubborn scratching sound of the tuner. Hang it all! Confound it! You are choking again! What misery! People still keep on swallowing tons of hell so skillfully, and you - always choking to death on a mere grain of rice. Honestly, if only I could vanish underground for shame.
He doesn’t want to listen at all, just going on writing, silently and pressingly. But. sadly, how can he shut up his ears! There, and he also hears her tuning in to Channel Seven again…
Somebody’s snores are sounding like thunder. Has the merry making party finished? He mumbles.
… Suddenly in a while resounds a piece of the Adagio of the… No 14 in C sharp minor, by… Channel Six, isn’t it? He is about to ask, but the tuner has been turned. Yes, it must have been Channel Six. They have stopped doing that; there is left merely the bleeding sound of music, the bleeding moonlight. Again, he looks involuntarily out of the window, at the clouds over the field of eternity; it’s not like spring, nor summer, nor autumn, nor… Yes, the clouds. What immortal dreams are they nursing? Where do they come from? He suddenly feels so much like a stranger. So much.
Channel Five seizes his mind with its constant voice, once again: … Never has there been and never will there be anybody, either, to hear of such a suicide - suicide by poetry. The flow of verses is rising high, by the centimetre, and will certainly be over his chin, his mouth, his nose, and that will be an end to all that: there will be left only the eyes, wide open, slowly turning motionless, and then empty. Meanwhile, the flow will have stopped rising. It should take it a very long time to recede completely by way of the drains, and there will be left just alone the poet, lying flat to the ground, his pair of wings being all crushed…
They are speaking about you again. Her voice sounds very dry.
No. He looks blankly down the desk, stopping writing, yet just scribbling something with his pen. They understand nothing. Here we don’t know what death is. Such concept has already been defined as having no sense in Heaven.
He is still scribbling with the pen. Why are they telling such a lie? Nobody has ever known anything about this place of his. A suicide by poetry? What a funny idea! For him to compose poems! Actually, he’s only letting the words spurt like this, making the floor four inches flooded, and nothing other than that. And, as for him, his being has been appointed not to be ended ever.
But, I beg you. What do you keep writing like that for?
I beg you. His voice sounds very dry, too. I don’t know. Ah, is there possibly ever another answer which can be as truthful? Likewise, is there possibly ever anything other than this ugly pen for him to experience all these formidable dimensions of Eternity? Truly, he doesn’t know.
He catches a glimpse of her tightening her lips. Naturally, that’s not the first time he has been asked such a question. Oh well, let’s forget such trifles once he is, by himself, able to be the counterpoise of the world and, by himself, able to develop into a…
It seems that she is herself, too, able to forget. In a flash, she has already been found listening to another channel, looking quite frigid.
Channel Four. A programme of poetry. Where has The Timeless Screeeaming Voice already gone? And, it is now poetry. Some reading voice having something imploring in itself, which forces him to prick up his ears.
… You go out to the lane, sit down on a block of stone and begin to cry your heart out. You cry at first for yourself and then for everything, yes, everything in the world : for the sky and earth being too vast, for the clouds being too blue, for the sun - too bright , for the rice field - too yellow, for the river - too full of water, for the people passing by: for that woman with too thin the shoulders, too big the breasts, for that man with not only too miserable the gait, but also too long the penis,… Ah, all things existing are too beautiful and too pitiful for you to bear. However, the very thing that is becoming more and more terrible is that you still aren’t able to understand the reason for their existence. Thus, you go on and on crying and, finally, find out that your eyes are an overflowing spring.
Oh poor thing! What unknown creature with a tail is able to bear such unhappiness, which is so much like that of his own? The piece of poetry makes him really envy despite its being composed of only a few sentences. Well, unlike many other masterpieces he has ever known, which are nonsensically long and perfect, nonsensically well-written, intelligent and great, and which are not worth recalling at all…
Anyway, regrettably, poetry is still not something she is interested in. The scratching sound is determinedly speaking it out again. The radio is being tuned back to Channel Three…
It is still some brief news about the latest scientific discoveries: … have confirmed the existence of black holes,… The question of the nature of black holes, an absurd mystery of the physical reality… Again, all the things at the same time being serious and having nothing to do with him, sitting here, in a stuffy chaos, a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage, under the two-fold pressure: one, being lead-gray, of a tornado, which is still suspending somewhere out there, and the other, being sickly yellow, of the single lamp in the room, which is just like a chronically haunting eye, vertically hung and never shut…
… Recent studies have shown that, under the conditions of Heaven, liquid from the eyes will not run down the cheeks, but will… The words go on ringing extraordinarily seriously while he doesn’t know anything to do other than yawn, and silently realizes that he never remembers to cover his mouth just in time.
His yawn lasts as long as the scratching sound of the radio button and cannot stop even when, on Channel Two, is already heard the familiar, peculiar essay: … Although energy is always to be consumed in all forms, in this way or another, it is still the most tragic to exert oneself to the utmost in order to exhaust it for the memorization of things which are untrue, or exchange it for the belief in things which are unreal… Yes, and even when he, as if by some natural reflex, turns his eyes away, in a flash, out of the window, towards the Tomb of God, with a sad look.
At the moment, how much more he desires to have the radio tuned to Channel Nine, to immerse himself totally in it - the Eternal Silence, which has not even once been heard. However, he keeps on sitting still like that, twiddling with his pen, quietly yawning and quietly bending his head at last, writing on and on, letting his words overflow and spread pressingly everywhere…
Oh well, let him hold his sole solution as such, and he will be forever faithful to it, despite everything, despite the radio itself, which has been tuned by her hurriedly and noisily back to Channel One, where there has just been finished also some news bulletin, some essay, or some poem, he is not sure: … There will be you left alone, yet that will be enough to fulfill your mission as witness of the mysterious and eternal meaninglessness of the existence of Heaven… And, of course, even the way of ending like this, he says to himself, should be ignored, too.
There are only two beings, whose wings are falling off and dirty looking as if having not been even once used to fly. One of them, with large and baggy buttocks, is standing on tiptoe on one end of the desk, gluing an ear to the transistor radio made in Hell, hidden on the bookcase top, seeming to be attentively listening, yet, from time to time, turning around her pale face with two weary eyes, sighing; the other - sitting at the desk, bending his head, writing something continuously without a stop. The lines of his words are overflowing the floor, making it four inches flooded, and spreading swiftly to the drains outdoors. The atmosphere is stuffy, a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage,…
I beg you. The standing one repeats, her voice being sad. What have you been writing like that for?
The other gives no reply, apparently being quite absorbed.
Oh no! Her voice sounds even sadder. It can’t be so. I can’t believe it.
Pardon? The answering voice being indifferent.
I can’t believe it!
But believe what?
It can’t be so merry. It’s already supposed to be very unhappy down there!
The writing one raises his head, at last, still looking quite indifferent, though. The transistor radio is emitting the sounds of the nine channels of the VOH, the Voice of Hell, one by one.
*
He raises his head, at last, when she starts turning the radio button, searching for Channel One, VOHell. A symphony is being played by the anuses. He stops writing, but with no intention to listen, just in order to have an inattentive look to the right; there, another piece of gray lime has just dropped off the dirty wall, on which there are plenty of words such as Dieu, Love, Rai,… scribbled clumsily in chalk and charcoal, around a sketch, even more clumsily made, of a portrait of God, with a look which is at the same time respectable and suspectable, and a halo of dirty color. Yes, a halo!
The symphony stops. The program is continued with a professional voice: … Following is the latest news. Just recently we have received twelve more beings with wings. One of them reported that they had fled the darkness of some medieval Heaven, some unequally sad nation. They were all exhausted. Some of them were dead. Now there has been found no measure which can help the others to cheer up a little bit. We would like to bow respectfully before them all. We respect any sorrow of Heaven,… He yawns.
The scratching sound from the radio button. She is tuning in to Channel Two. An essay is being half read: … Obviously, the most callous yet most faithful mission of consciousness is to betray, after all, and, quite unfortunately , that is the only means of saving the Truth,… He still doesn’t feel like listening at all. His ears are paying attention to the sounds echoed from some floor above, in the building - some quarreling, harshly nagging voices, some shouting, and then some dry cries,… His eyes are looking out of the window. Out there, a wind is making a cloud of dust rise and whirl. The sky is sombre. There is a gray tornado still suspending somewhere, he knows.
Channel Three. Some news about the latest scientific discoveries. … An experiment has just been successfully performed on… His staring eyes are fixed at the window while he is trying to imagine something serious - a laboratory, for example, with the test tubes and the white coats,… He tries until he feels headache and, at last, shakes his head. Ah, once more he realizes very soon that no serious image can survive in his conscious field. However, that’s all right, ultimately speaking. Those things, no matter how serious they may be, have nothing to do with him, sitting here, in a stuffy chaos a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage!
The radio tuner continues its scratching sound. It is being turned enthusiastically, again. Channel Four. The Timeless Sreeeeaming Voice. He lays the pen down. That is the very word he really doesn’t want to hear. Time!
Channel Five. The zero o’clock news. It’s time again! What is that? Isn’t it the concept attached to each time zone, which some herd of tailed-beings content themselves with and take turns gnawing at? Thus, he can’t share it with them. Here, where he resides, morning or night, on sunny or on rainy days, in the little hot or in the very hot season, the only lamp on that ceiling is always on, just like a sickly yellow eye, vertically hung and never shut, and, in its chronically sickly yellow, haunting light, he can’t tell what time it is. His time here is immeasurable, limitless, or twisted and condensed, in some way, which he can’t describe with a worldly and imperfect language; it should be experienced and interpreted by means of some absolutely transcendental categories, which are quite beyond the reach of both his consciousness and imagination. Ah, time! Since very long, he has stopped being aware of it.
The news bulletin suddenly pulls him back to the radio: … It is rumored that , on the ground floor of Heaven, from his false sorrow, a winged-being is letting his verses overwhelm and make flood all the drains…
She turns around, with her reproaching voice.
They are speaking about you. Her eyes seem to be wearier.
He listens, looking quite sad.
No. They’re mistaken. My sorrow is real.
And he hangs his head, seeming to be very sad, looking at the lines of words being shed ceaselessly. How can they understand what he is doing here? Oh well, forget it; he shouldn’t care. When he is writing, he alone is the counterpoise of the world, he himself develops into a world of his own…
Channel Six. The creaking noise of a bed. The panting breaths mingled with the soft, encouraging hisses,…
I heard that the she-devils down there are very beautiful, is that right? Her gloomy voice sounds like groaning.
Not at all. He mumbles, his head still hanging. It’s been proved that the female beings with a tail down there have to sit for hours in front of the mirror, painting again and again the contour of the openings on their face with the cosmetics of extra fine quality. They must be ugly.
But she still doesn’t seem to be appeased. Her trembling fingers go on torturing the radio tuner.
Channel Seven. The sounds of clinking glasses. Laughter. Compliments. A merry making party. Well! Come on! Cheers! On the 1991st death anniversary of… He can’t help , once more, looking out of the window. In the distance, at the end of his eyeshot, across a treeless deserted field, there is a big mound which is named The Tomb of God. As for him, he has never called it that way. It is so offensive for the heart to see it today, full of patches of dirty yellow weeds. He always thinks that it is supposed to be flagged with chilly marble slabs, resting in peace and quiet, under the dense shade of the evergreens…
Channel Eight. Salvos of choking laughter.
*
She keeps on turning again and again the radio button, hopelessly, and at last, bursts into tears.
Oh no! She leans her front against the bookcase, her shoulders trembling. I can’t believe it!
Come on! Patiently he says, involuntarily groping for the pen.
Again, he bends his head, writing at full stretch. And his words, again, overflow the floor, flooding it, and spreading swiftly everywhere, the greatest part down into the drains reeking of rats, of cockroaches, and of… , only a little part rising and whirling with the wind, glittering in the cloud of dust. There is still a gray tornado suspending somewhere outside,… The atmosphere is really stuffy.
He wishes that she would tune in to Channel Nine. But without much hope. She will never choose to listen to Channel Nine, nor will she ever turn them all off. She would rather be all the time tuning in and, going on like that, enthusiastically drawing the scratching sound out, as if forever. That’s better, anyway. She says. I hate Channel Nine. Yes, he knows, there is emitted only an Eternal Silence there. But, for his part, how he craves for it!
From some floor above in the building can be heard a resounding voice, which is now drowning the stubborn scratching sound of the tuner. Hang it all! Confound it! You are choking again! What misery! People still keep on swallowing tons of hell so skillfully, and you - always choking to death on a mere grain of rice. Honestly, if only I could vanish underground for shame.
He doesn’t want to listen at all, just going on writing, silently and pressingly. But. sadly, how can he shut up his ears! There, and he also hears her tuning in to Channel Seven again…
Somebody’s snores are sounding like thunder. Has the merry making party finished? He mumbles.
… Suddenly in a while resounds a piece of the Adagio of the… No 14 in C sharp minor, by… Channel Six, isn’t it? He is about to ask, but the tuner has been turned. Yes, it must have been Channel Six. They have stopped doing that; there is left merely the bleeding sound of music, the bleeding moonlight. Again, he looks involuntarily out of the window, at the clouds over the field of eternity; it’s not like spring, nor summer, nor autumn, nor… Yes, the clouds. What immortal dreams are they nursing? Where do they come from? He suddenly feels so much like a stranger. So much.
Channel Five seizes his mind with its constant voice, once again: … Never has there been and never will there be anybody, either, to hear of such a suicide - suicide by poetry. The flow of verses is rising high, by the centimetre, and will certainly be over his chin, his mouth, his nose, and that will be an end to all that: there will be left only the eyes, wide open, slowly turning motionless, and then empty. Meanwhile, the flow will have stopped rising. It should take it a very long time to recede completely by way of the drains, and there will be left just alone the poet, lying flat to the ground, his pair of wings being all crushed…
They are speaking about you again. Her voice sounds very dry.
No. He looks blankly down the desk, stopping writing, yet just scribbling something with his pen. They understand nothing. Here we don’t know what death is. Such concept has already been defined as having no sense in Heaven.
He is still scribbling with the pen. Why are they telling such a lie? Nobody has ever known anything about this place of his. A suicide by poetry? What a funny idea! For him to compose poems! Actually, he’s only letting the words spurt like this, making the floor four inches flooded, and nothing other than that. And, as for him, his being has been appointed not to be ended ever.
But, I beg you. What do you keep writing like that for?
I beg you. His voice sounds very dry, too. I don’t know. Ah, is there possibly ever another answer which can be as truthful? Likewise, is there possibly ever anything other than this ugly pen for him to experience all these formidable dimensions of Eternity? Truly, he doesn’t know.
He catches a glimpse of her tightening her lips. Naturally, that’s not the first time he has been asked such a question. Oh well, let’s forget such trifles once he is, by himself, able to be the counterpoise of the world and, by himself, able to develop into a…
It seems that she is herself, too, able to forget. In a flash, she has already been found listening to another channel, looking quite frigid.
Channel Four. A programme of poetry. Where has The Timeless Screeeaming Voice already gone? And, it is now poetry. Some reading voice having something imploring in itself, which forces him to prick up his ears.
… You go out to the lane, sit down on a block of stone and begin to cry your heart out. You cry at first for yourself and then for everything, yes, everything in the world : for the sky and earth being too vast, for the clouds being too blue, for the sun - too bright , for the rice field - too yellow, for the river - too full of water, for the people passing by: for that woman with too thin the shoulders, too big the breasts, for that man with not only too miserable the gait, but also too long the penis,… Ah, all things existing are too beautiful and too pitiful for you to bear. However, the very thing that is becoming more and more terrible is that you still aren’t able to understand the reason for their existence. Thus, you go on and on crying and, finally, find out that your eyes are an overflowing spring.
Oh poor thing! What unknown creature with a tail is able to bear such unhappiness, which is so much like that of his own? The piece of poetry makes him really envy despite its being composed of only a few sentences. Well, unlike many other masterpieces he has ever known, which are nonsensically long and perfect, nonsensically well-written, intelligent and great, and which are not worth recalling at all…
Anyway, regrettably, poetry is still not something she is interested in. The scratching sound is determinedly speaking it out again. The radio is being tuned back to Channel Three…
It is still some brief news about the latest scientific discoveries: … have confirmed the existence of black holes,… The question of the nature of black holes, an absurd mystery of the physical reality… Again, all the things at the same time being serious and having nothing to do with him, sitting here, in a stuffy chaos, a bit smelling of rats, of cockroaches, and of rotten garbage, under the two-fold pressure: one, being lead-gray, of a tornado, which is still suspending somewhere out there, and the other, being sickly yellow, of the single lamp in the room, which is just like a chronically haunting eye, vertically hung and never shut…
… Recent studies have shown that, under the conditions of Heaven, liquid from the eyes will not run down the cheeks, but will… The words go on ringing extraordinarily seriously while he doesn’t know anything to do other than yawn, and silently realizes that he never remembers to cover his mouth just in time.
His yawn lasts as long as the scratching sound of the radio button and cannot stop even when, on Channel Two, is already heard the familiar, peculiar essay: … Although energy is always to be consumed in all forms, in this way or another, it is still the most tragic to exert oneself to the utmost in order to exhaust it for the memorization of things which are untrue, or exchange it for the belief in things which are unreal… Yes, and even when he, as if by some natural reflex, turns his eyes away, in a flash, out of the window, towards the Tomb of God, with a sad look.
At the moment, how much more he desires to have the radio tuned to Channel Nine, to immerse himself totally in it - the Eternal Silence, which has not even once been heard. However, he keeps on sitting still like that, twiddling with his pen, quietly yawning and quietly bending his head at last, writing on and on, letting his words overflow and spread pressingly everywhere…
Oh well, let him hold his sole solution as such, and he will be forever faithful to it, despite everything, despite the radio itself, which has been tuned by her hurriedly and noisily back to Channel One, where there has just been finished also some news bulletin, some essay, or some poem, he is not sure: … There will be you left alone, yet that will be enough to fulfill your mission as witness of the mysterious and eternal meaninglessness of the existence of Heaven… And, of course, even the way of ending like this, he says to himself, should be ignored, too.
Saigon, February 1991
____________________________________________
Chú thích: Tác giả tự dịch 2002 từ truyện ngắn TẦNG TRỆT THIÊN ĐƯỜNG, theo yêu cầu của Nguyễn Hưng Quốc & Hoàng Ngọc Tuấn để họ sử dụng trong Tuyển Tập Văn Học Đông Nam Á do Dennis Haskell chủ biên, mà Đại Học Western Australia (Úc) dự kiến xuất bản vào thời điểm đó. Theo Quốc, anh và Tuấn phụ trách giới thiệu mảng văn học VN đương đại với chín tác giả do họ chọn lựa, gồm sáu thơ - Chánh, Hạo, Linh,… (theo thứ tự alphabet), và ba văn - Hoài, Thiệp, Vị. Cũng theo Quốc, Dennis sau khi đọc các văn bản dịch đã cho biết rất bất ngờ với chất lượng thơ văn đương đại của VN, mà ông xếp vào hạng tốt nhất trong số các quốc gia Đông Nam Á bấy giờ. Song, rất tiếc, với nhà nước Đông Timor mới được thành lập, dự án nói trên đòi hỏi bổ sung, nên đã phải hoãn lại cho đến… “tháng Mười” - hay “bao giờ” - thì họ vẫn chưa thông báo lại.
Nói thêm về bản dịch này, tác giả vẫn muốn sử dụng nó thay vì bản đã được Tôn Thất Huy và Đinh Từ Bích Thúy biên tập lại để công bố ở damau.org 18.04.2007 (http://damau.org/archives/14900)
bất chấp văn bản sau có thể hoàn hảo hơn, vì tác giả-dịch giả muốn trung thành với kết quả lao động dịch thuật của mình.
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AU REZ-DE-CHAUSSÉE DU PARADIS
Đoàn Cầm Thi dịch 2005
Đoàn Cầm Thi dịch 2005
Năm 2005 nxb Philippe
Picquier (Pháp) phát hành tuyển tập truyện ngắn 14 tác giả Việt Nam, do dịch
giả Đoàn Cầm Thi thực hiện, trong đó truyện Tầng Trệt Thiên Đường
được chuyển ngữ thành Au-rez-de-chaussée du paradis (cũng là tựa chung cho sách ấy), và 2006 tuyển tập được trao giải Le Mot
d’Or de la traduction của APFA (http://www.presse-francophone.org/apfa/apfa/traducti.htm
/ http://vietbao.vn/vi/Thong-tin/Dich-gia-van-hoc-Doan-Cam-Thi/2131856462/78). Tuy nhiên, bản dịch có một số chỗ bị chệch nghĩa hoặc bị bỏ sót (đối chiếu với bản gốc @ bhvsg.blogspot.com/2008/11/tng-trt-thin-ng.html), không phải vì những chỗ ấy phức tạp khó dịch mà chỉ do thiếu hội ý
giữa người dịch với người viết. Tôi chưa bao giờ đồng ý để người khác tùy tiện
đổi một chi tiết trong sản phẩm mình, dù qua bản dịch cũng vậy. Mặc dù muộn,
tôi (BHV) đề nghị nxb bỏ truyện ngắn đã nói ra khỏi sách, trừ khi những bất cập
được họ khắc phục, ít ra cũng như
văn bản dưới đây:
Au rez-de-chaussée.
A l'intérieur d'une pièce. Le mobilier comprend
une armoire placée contre le mur, un
bureau près de l'armoire, et deux chaises face au bureau.
Deux êtres portent des ailes déchirées, si sales qu'on se demande s'ils ont jamais volé. L’un des deux, aux fesses énormes et terribles, est debout sur un
coin du bureau. II se hausse sur la pointe
des pieds pour se rapprocher d'un
poste de radio made in Hell caché au sommet de l'armoire, qu'il écoute attentivement. De temps en temps, il se retourne et soupire. Son
visage est très pâle, ses yeux
cernés... L'autre être ailé, assis sur une
chaise, écrit sans arrêt, la tête baissée... Ses mots se répandent à profusion, inondent le sol,
submergent les égouts. A l’air lourd,
s'ajoute l'odeur de rat, de cafard et
d'ordure...
Je t'en prie,
répète l'être resté debout, d'une voix sombre.
Pourquoi écris-tu sans cesse?
L’autre ne répond pas, absorbé par son
travail.
Non, continue le
premier. C'est impossible! Je n'y crois pas.
Pardon?
demande l'autre d'une voix distraite.
Je n'y crois pas.
Mais à quoi?
A cette joie! L’atmosphère d'en bas est censée
être triste.
L'autre
lève la tête, d'un air toujours distrait. La radio
diffuse successivement les neuf stations de l’Enfer.
*
Soudain,
l'homme dresse la tête lorsque la femme tourne le bouton pour chercher VOHell, la première station. Une symphonie de flatulences. Il
cesse d'écrire, mais sans avoir l’air d'écouter, il
regarde avec négligence un morceau de plâtre
gris qui vient de tomber du mur à
droite, entaché et constellé de graffitis à la craie et au charbon - Dieu, Love, Rai... - autour d’un
dessin qui griffonne Dieu au visage à la fois respectable et suspect avec une auréole rouille. Oui,
une
auréole!
La symphonie s'arrête. Puis parvient une voix de speaker: Voici les dernières nouvelles! Nous venons de recevoir
douze êtres ailés. L'un d'eux a expliqué qu'ils venaient des ombres d'un certain Paradis
médiéval, d'un pays incomparablement triste. Ils étaient tous épuisés.
Quelques-uns sont morts. Nous n'avons
pas encore trouvé de mesure idoine
pour améliorer le moral des survivants. Nous voudrions leur exprimer notre
respect. Nous respectons toutes les
douleurs du Paradis... L'homme bâille.
Un crépitement
s'échappe du bouton de la radio. Elle
cherche la deuxième station qui diffuse une dissertation: ... Enfin, la vocation la plus cruelle
mais aussi la plus fidèle
de la conscience est de trahir, et c'est par malheur le seul
moyen de sauver la vérité... Il n'écoute toujours pas. Il s'intéresse soudain aux bruits provenant des étages supérieurs de l'immeuble: disputes, propos acerbes, cris, puis pleurs secs... Son regard retourne
vers la fenêtre. Dehors, le vent souffle et entrâine avec lui la poussière. Le ciel est d'une couleur morne. Une tornade
grise est suspendue quelque part, il le sait.
Troisième station.
Des informations sur les découvertes
scientifiques les plus récentes... Il y a peu,
les... ont réussi une experience... Son oeil fixe la fenêtre pendant qu'il essaie d'imaginer quelque chose de sérieux, un laboratoire par exemple, des tubes de verre, des blouses
blanches... Il fait un tel effort qu'il se sent fatigué. Enfin, il secoue la tête. De nouveau, il doit reconnaître qu'aucune image de ce genre ne peut survivre
dans sa conscience. Mais ce n'est pas grave. Ces
choses, si raisonnables
soient-elles, ne le concernent pas, lui, assis ici au milieu d'un chaos étouffant qui empeste le rat, le cafard
et l'ordure!
Le bouton de la
radio grince de nouveau. Il se retourne avec enthousiasme. Quatrième station. Le cri intemporel. Il pose son stylo avec lassitude. C'est justement
le mot qu'il ne veut pas entendre. Le temps!
Cinquième station.
Informations de minuit. Encore le temps! Qu'est-ce que le temps? Est-ce
cette durée mesurée par les fuseaux
horaires, que les humains se contentent
de dévorer? Il ne peut donc la partager avec eux. Ici, où il réside, jour et nuit, qu'il fasse beau ou qu'il
pleuve, en saison peu
chaude ou en saison très chaude, seule brille une lampe au plafond comme un oeil d'un jaune maladif qui est verticalement suspendu et ne se ferme jamais. Sous cette lumière, chroniquement obsédante, il ne peut connaître
l'heure. Que son temps soit illimité
ou tordu, ou condensé, en
quelque sorte, il ne peut pas l'exprimer par ce langage imparfait et vulgaire. Ce temps doit être experimenté et interprété selon des critères transcendantaux, au-delà de sa conscience
et de son imagination. Le temps! Voilà longtemps qu'il ne le
sait
plus!
Soudain, une
information radiodiffusée attire son attention:
On apprend qu'au rez-de-chaussée du Paradis, un être ailé
simulant la douleur a composé des vers qui inondent tous les égouts... Elle se tourne vers lui.
On parle de toi, dit-elle avec un certain
reproche. Les
cernes de ses yeux se renforcent, semble-t-il.
Il écoute,
mélancolique.
Non, ils se
trompent. Ma douleur est réelle.
Puis toujours atrabilaire, il baisse la tête, l'oeil rivé sur l'écoulement
infini des mots. Ils ne comprennent rien
de ce qu'il fait. Tant pis, cela n'a aucune importance! Lorsqu'il écrit, il est le seul contrepoids au monde - il crée son propre
monde...
Sixième station. Grincements répétés d'un lit. Souffles courts mélangés à des
sifflements tendres et encourageants...
On dit aussi qu'en
bas, les diablesses
sont très belles. C'est
vrai? demande-t-elle d'une
voix aussi sombre qu'un gémissement.
Pas du tout, dit-il, la tête toujours
baissée. II est prouvé qu'en bas,
les êtres à queue femelles
restent plusieurs heures devant
leur miroir à peindre et repeindre les contours des
trous sur leur visage à l'aide de produits de luxe. Ils doivent être
bien laids.
Elle n'est pourtant pas rassurée. De ses doigts fébriles, elle tourne et retourne le bouton de la
radio.
Septième station. Cliquetis de verres. Rires. Voeux. Une fête. Tchin-tchin! A l'occasion du 1991e anniversaire de... Il ne peut s'empêcher de regarder de nouveau dehors. Très loin, au fond de l'horizon,
au-delà d'un désert, il existe un
tertre nommé Tombeau de Dieu, mais lui
ne l'a jamais appelé ainsi, choqué de le voir couvert de mauvaises herbes. Il pense toujours que ce
monument aurait dû être construit en marbre, frais et silencieux, à l'ombre de
bégonias.
Huitième station. Salves de rires...
*
Déçue, elle tourne
puis retourne le bouton. Elle éclate en sanglots.
Non, je n'y crois pas,
dit-elle, la tête contre l'armoire. Ses épaules tremblent.
Calme-toi,
dit-il avec patience, en cherchant son stylo de manière
inconsciente.
Il baisse la tête
de nouveau et continue à écrire. Les mots coulent à flots. La
plupart envahissent l'espace et inondent les
égouts qui libèrent des odeurs de rat, de cafard et de... Le reste s'envole avec le vent et brille au milieu de la poussière. Dehors, une tornade est
suspendue quelque part... Il fait
lourd.
II aurait aimé qu'elle mette la neuvième station. Sans grand espoir. Elle ne l'écoute jamais, tout comme
elle n'éteint jamais la radio pour avoir l'impression que le ronronnement dure à l’infini. De toute façon,
c'est mieux
comme ça, explique-t-elle. Je déteste la neuvième. Oui,
il sait bien qu'elle émet uniquement le Silence éternel. Mais lui, comme il
aimerait l'écouter!
D'un étage supérieur, parvient une voix forte qui resonne
en couvrant le ronron de la radio: Diantre! Tu t'étrangles
de nouveau! Les autres sont capables d'avaler des tonnes d'enfer sans difficulté
tandis que tu t'étouffes à cause d’une simple brisure de riz!
Raz le bol…!
Il ne veut pas écouter et écrit sans cesse. Mais, hélas, il ne peut fermer ses oreilles. Voilà qu'elle revient à la septième...
Tonnerre de
ronflements. La fête se termine déjà?
murmure-t-il. Soudain retentit un morceau de l'Adagio... n° 14. C'est la
sixième, n'est-ce pas? Mais avant qu'il ouvre la bouche, le bouton a eté tourné. Il est sûr que c'etait la sixième.
Les bruits ont cessé, ne demeure plus qu'une musique saignante, une lune saignante. Tout à
coup, à travers la fenêtre, il voit les nuages au-dessus
des champs de l'éternité. Ce n'est ni le printemps, ni l’été, ni... Quel rêve immortel caressent-ils? D'où viennent-ils? Il se sent soudain étranger...
La
cinquième l'attire de nouveau par cette voix insistante: Jamais on n'a entendu ni n'entendra parler d'un suicide
pareil, un suicide par poésie. Les flots de poésie s'élèvent,
centimètre par centimètre, pour atteindre bientôt son menton, sa
bouche, son nez. A la fin, on verra seulement les deux yeux grands
ouverts qui s'immobiliseront, vides. Les vagues de poèmes cesseront de
monter. Il faudra
attendre longtemps pour que la poésie se retire complètement
des égouts. Il ne restera que le poète, plaqué au sol, les
ailes déchirées...
Ils parlent toujours de toi, dit-elle d'une voix sèche.
Non, répond-il
en regardant son bureau. Il joue avec le stylo. Ils ne comprennent
rien. Nous ne connaissons pas la mort. Cette notion n'a, par définition,
aucun sens au Paradis.
Il joue toujours avec le stylo. Pourquoi ont-ils menti? Nul ne connaît l'endroit où il vit. Se suicider par poésie? Quelle drôle d'idée! Il n'a jamais composé de poéme. Il laisse seulement couler les mots, qui couvrent à peine le sol d'un centimètre, sans plus. Quant à lui, son existence est censée ne jamais s'arrêter.
Je t'en prie. Pourquoi écris-tu autant?
Je t'en prie aussi! Répond-il d'une voix sèche. Je ne sais
Il la
voit se pincer les lèvres. Evidemment, ce n'est pas la première fois que cette
question lui a été posée. Mais il faut oublier ces riens, puisqu'il est capable, par lui-même, d'être le seul contrepoids au monde, de se créer son propre...
Elle aussi, elle semble savoir oublier. En un instant, elle attrape une autre station, l'air indifférent.
La quatrième.
Lecture de poème. Où est-il
déjà, Le cri intemporel? Et maintenant,
c’est l’heure de poésie! S'élève
une voix si pressante qu'il dresse les oreilles malgré lui.
... Il marche
Quelle infortune! Qui est cette créature
inconnue capable de porter une si forte
douleur, identique à la sienne? Ce
poème, si court soit-il, le rend jaloux. Eh bien, contrairement à beaucoup d'autres chefs-d'œuvre qu'il a connus,
qui sont inutilement longs et parfaits, inutilement intelligents et grandioses,
et qui ne valent pas à peine pour lui de se rappeller …
Quel dommage
qu'elle soit insensible à la poésie! Le
bruit du bouton le lui rappelle... Puis la troisième station est de retour...
Toujours des dépêches
sur les récentes découvertes... l'existence des trous noirs a été
confirmée... La nature des trous noirs - un mystère paradoxal de la realité
physique... Encore des choses
serieuses mais qui ne le concernent pas,
lui, ici, au milieu de ce chaos étouffant où se mêlent les odeurs de rat, de cafard et
d'ordure, sous la double pression d'une
tornade grise suspendue quelque part dehors
et de cette unique lampe, allumée comme un oeil
d'un jaune maladif, chroniquement obsédant, qui est verticalement suspendu et ne se ferme jamais...
... De récentes études montrent que sous certaines
conditions... le liquide de l’oeil ne coule pas sur les joues, mais... De nouveau, ces discours explosent sur un ton grave alors ne peut réprimer un bâillement, ce qu'il n'a jamais su faire a temps.
Pendant
qu'il bâille, le bruit ne cesse de parvenir de la radio, même lorsque la deuxième diffuse comme d'habitude
cette dissertation bizarre... Certes, l'énergie doit être
dépensée pour différentes raisons, sous diverses formes. Mais il est dommage de l’utiliser dans le but de mémoriser les choses qui ne sont pas... ou de
croire à quelque chose qui n'est
pas... Oui, même lorsqu'il se retourne, par simple réflexe, pour regarder avec mélancolie à travers la fenêtre, le Tombeau de Dieu...
Comme il brûle de
tourner le bouton vers la neuvième pour
s'immerger dans ce Silence éternel qu'il
n'a jamais entendu! Pourtant, il ne bouge pas, joue
avec son stylo et bâille tranquillement. Enfin, il baisse la tête,
s'absorbe de nouveau dans son écriture, laissant les flots de mots inonder l'espace, impétueusement...
Mais telle est peut-être la seule solution, et il
y demeurera fidèle,
malgré tout, malgré la radio dont le bouton,
après avoir été tourné dans
tous les sens, revient à la première
où viennent juste de s'achever un bulletin d'informations, une dissertation, ou
encore un poème, il n'en est plus sûr...
et il ne restera plus que vous,
mais vous pourrez accomplir votre mission qui est de témoigner du
non-sens mystérieux et éternel de l'existence du
Paradis... Et bien sûr, je me fiche de cette manière de finir, se dit-il.
Chú thích:
1) Mười bốn tác giả trong tuyển
tập Au rez-de-chaussée du paradis: Phan Thị Vàng Anh, Nguyễn Việt Hà, Võ
Thị Xuân Hà, Vũ Quỳnh N.H., Phan Triều Hải, Đỗ Kh., Ngô Tự Lập, Nguyễn Trọng
Nghĩa, Nguyễn Bình Phương, Phan Huyền Thư, Thuận, Nguyễn Ngọc Tú, Bùi Hoằng Vị,
Trần Vũ.
2) Trong văn bản trên, tôi highlight những chỗ đã sửa lại.
Đoàn Cầm Thi dịch 2005
Năm 2005 nxb Philippe Picquier (Pháp) phát hành tuyển tập truyện ngắn 14 tác giả Việt Nam, do dịch giả Đoàn Cầm Thi thực hiện, trong đó truyện Tầng Trệt Thiên Đường được chuyển ngữ thành Au-rez-de-chaussée du paradis (cũng là tựa chung cho sách ấy), và 2006 tuyển tập được trao giải Le Mot d’Or de la traduction của APFA (http://www.presse-francophone.org/apfa/apfa/traducti.htm / http://vietbao.vn/vi/Thong-tin/Dich-gia-van-hoc-Doan-Cam-Thi/2131856462/78). Tuy nhiên, bản dịch có một số chỗ bị chệch nghĩa hoặc bị bỏ sót (đối chiếu với bản gốc @ bhvsg.blogspot.com/2008/11/tng-trt-thin-ng.html), không phải vì những chỗ ấy phức tạp khó dịch mà chỉ do thiếu hội ý giữa người dịch với người viết. Tôi chưa bao giờ đồng ý để người khác tùy tiện đổi một chi tiết trong sản phẩm mình, dù qua bản dịch cũng vậy. Mặc dù muộn, tôi (BHV) đề nghị nxb bỏ truyện ngắn đã nói ra khỏi sách, trừ khi những bất cập được họ khắc phục, ít ra cũng như văn bản dưới đây:
Au rez-de-chaussée. A l'intérieur d'une pièce. Le mobilier comprend une armoire placée contre le mur, un bureau près de l'armoire, et deux chaises face au bureau.
Deux êtres portent des ailes déchirées, si sales qu'on se demande s'ils ont jamais volé. L’un des deux, aux fesses énormes et terribles, est debout sur un
coin du bureau. II se hausse sur la pointe
des pieds pour se rapprocher d'un
poste de radio made in Hell caché au sommet de l'armoire, qu'il écoute attentivement. De temps en temps, il se retourne et soupire. Son
visage est très pâle, ses yeux
cernés... L'autre être ailé, assis sur une
chaise, écrit sans arrêt, la tête baissée... Ses mots se répandent à profusion, inondent le sol,
submergent les égouts. A l’air lourd,
s'ajoute l'odeur de rat, de cafard et
d'ordure...
Je t'en prie,
répète l'être resté debout, d'une voix sombre.
Pourquoi écris-tu sans cesse?
L’autre ne répond pas, absorbé par son
travail.
Non, continue le
premier. C'est impossible! Je n'y crois pas.
Pardon?
demande l'autre d'une voix distraite.
Je n'y crois pas.
Mais à quoi?
A cette joie! L’atmosphère d'en bas est censée
être triste.
L'autre
lève la tête, d'un air toujours distrait. La radio
diffuse successivement les neuf stations de l’Enfer.
*
Soudain,
l'homme dresse la tête lorsque la femme tourne le bouton pour chercher VOHell, la première station. Une symphonie de flatulences. Il
cesse d'écrire, mais sans avoir l’air d'écouter, il
regarde avec négligence un morceau de plâtre
gris qui vient de tomber du mur à
droite, entaché et constellé de graffitis à la craie et au charbon - Dieu, Love, Rai... - autour d’un dessin qui griffonne Dieu au visage à la fois respectable et suspect avec une auréole rouille.
Oui, une auréole!
La symphonie s'arrête. Puis parvient une voix de speaker: Voici les dernières nouvelles! Nous venons de recevoir
douze êtres ailés. L'un d'eux a expliqué qu'ils venaient des ombres d'un certain Paradis
médiéval, d'un pays incomparablement triste. Ils étaient tous épuisés. Quelques-uns sont
morts. Nous n'avons pas encore trouvé de mesure idoine pour
améliorer le moral des survivants. Nous voudrions leur exprimer notre respect.
Nous respectons toutes les douleurs du Paradis... L'homme bâille.
Un crépitement
s'échappe du bouton de la radio. Elle
cherche la deuxième station qui diffuse une dissertation: ... Enfin, la vocation la plus cruelle
mais aussi la plus fidèle
de la conscience est de trahir, et c'est par malheur le seul
moyen de sauver la vérité... Il n'écoute toujours pas. Il s'intéresse soudain aux bruits provenant des étages supérieurs de l'immeuble: disputes, propos acerbes, cris, puis pleurs secs... Son regard retourne
vers la fenêtre. Dehors, le vent souffle et entrâine avec lui la poussière. Le ciel est d'une couleur morne. Une tornade
grise est suspendue quelque part, il le sait.
Troisième station.
Des informations sur les découvertes
scientifiques les plus récentes... Il y a peu,
les... ont réussi une experience... Son oeil fixe la fenêtre pendant qu'il essaie d'imaginer quelque chose de sérieux, un laboratoire par exemple, des tubes de verre, des blouses
blanches... Il fait un tel effort qu'il se sent fatigué. Enfin, il secoue la tête. De nouveau, il doit reconnaître qu'aucune image de ce genre ne peut survivre
dans sa conscience. Mais ce n'est
pas grave. Ces choses, si raisonnables
soient-elles, ne le concernent pas, lui, assis ici au milieu d'un chaos étouffant qui empeste le rat, le cafard
et l'ordure!
Le bouton de la
radio grince de nouveau. Il se retourne avec enthousiasme. Quatrième station. Le cri intemporel. Il pose son stylo avec lassitude. C'est justement
le mot qu'il ne veut pas entendre. Le temps!
Cinquième station.
Informations de minuit. Encore le temps! Qu'est-ce que le temps? Est-ce
cette durée mesurée par les fuseaux
horaires, que les humains se contentent
de dévorer? Il ne peut donc la partager avec eux. Ici, où il réside, jour et nuit, qu'il fasse beau ou qu'il
pleuve, en saison peu chaude ou en saison très chaude [1], seule brille une
lampe au plafond comme un oeil d'un jaune maladif qui est verticalement suspendu et [2] ne se ferme jamais. Sous cette lumière, chroniquement obsédante [3], il ne peut connaître
l'heure. Que son temps soit illimité
ou tordu, ou condensé, en quelque sorte, [4] il ne peut [5] pas l'exprimer par ce
langage imparfait et vulgaire. Ce temps doit être experimenté
[6] et interprété selon
des critères transcendantaux, au-delà de sa conscience
et de son imagination. Le temps! Voilà longtemps qu'il ne le sait plus!
Soudain, une
information radiodiffusée attire son attention:
On apprend qu'au rez-de-chaussée du Paradis, un être ailé
simulant la douleur a composé des vers qui inondent tous les égouts... Elle se tourne vers lui.
On parle de toi, dit-elle avec un certain
reproche. Les
cernes de ses yeux se renforcent, semble-t-il.
Il écoute,
mélancolique.
Non, ils se
trompent. Ma douleur est réelle.
Puis toujours atrabilaire, il baisse la tête, l'oeil rivé sur l'écoulement
infini des mots. Ils ne comprennent rien
de ce qu'il fait. Tant pis, cela n'a aucune importance! Lorsqu'il écrit, il est le seul contrepoids au monde - il crée
son propre monde...
Sixième station. Grincements répétés d'un lit. Souffles courts mélangés à des
sifflements tendres et encourageants...
On dit aussi qu'en
bas, les diablesses sont très belles.
C'est vrai? demande-t-elle
d'une voix aussi sombre qu'un gémissement.
Pas du tout, dit-il, la tête toujours
baissée. II est prouvé qu'en bas,
les êtres à queue [7] femelles
restent plusieurs heures devant
leur miroir à peindre et repeindre les contours des trous sur
[8] leur
visage à l'aide de produits de luxe. Ils doivent être
bien laids.
Elle n'est pourtant pas rassurée. De ses doigts fébriles, elle tourne et retourne le bouton de la
radio.
Septième station. Cliquetis de verres. Rires. Voeux. Une fête. Tchin-tchin! A l'occasion du 1991e anniversaire de... Il ne peut s'empêcher de regarder de nouveau dehors. Très loin, au fond de l'horizon,
au-delà d'un désert, il existe un
tertre nommé Tombeau de Dieu, mais lui
ne l'a jamais appelé ainsi, choqué de le voir couvert de mauvaises herbes. Il pense toujours que ce
monument aurait dû être construit en marbre, frais et silencieux, à l'ombre de
bégonias.
Huitième station. Salves de rires...
*
Déçue, elle tourne
puis retourne le bouton. Elle éclate en sanglots.
Non, je n'y crois pas,
dit-elle, la tête contre l'armoire. Ses épaules tremblent.
Calme-toi,
dit-il avec patience, en cherchant son stylo de manière
inconsciente.
Il baisse la tête
de nouveau et continue à écrire. Les mots coulent à flots. La
plupart envahissent l'espace et inondent les
égouts qui libèrent des odeurs de rat, de cafard et de... Le reste s'envole avec le vent et brille au milieu de la poussière. Dehors, une tornade est
suspendue quelque part... Il fait
lourd.
II aurait aimé qu'elle mette la neuvième station. Sans grand espoir. Elle ne l'écoute jamais, tout comme
elle n'éteint jamais la radio pour avoir l'impression que le ronronnement dure à l’infini. De toute façon,
c'est mieux
comme ça, explique-t-elle. Je déteste la neuvième. Oui, il sait [9] bien qu'elle émet uniquement le Silence éternel. Mais lui, comme il
aimerait l'écouter!
D'un étage supérieur, parvient une voix forte qui resonne
en couvrant le ronron de la radio: Diantre! Tu t'étrangles
de nouveau! Les autres sont capables d'avaler des tonnes d'enfer sans difficulté
tandis que tu t'étouffes à cause d’une simple brisure de riz!
Raz le bol…!
Il ne veut pas écouter et écrit sans cesse. Mais, hélas, il ne peut fermer ses oreilles. Voilà qu'elle revient à la septième...
Tonnerre de
ronflements. La fête se termine déjà?
murmure-t-il. Soudain retentit un morceau de l'Adagio... n° 14. C'est la
sixième, n'est-ce pas? Mais avant qu'il ouvre la bouche, le bouton a été tourné. Il est sûr que c'etait la sixième.
Les bruits ont cessé, ne demeure plus qu'une musique saignante, une lune saignante. Tout à coup, à travers la fenêtre, il voit les nuages au-dessus des champs de l'éternité. Ce n'est ni le printemps, ni l’été, ni... Quel rêve immortel caressent-ils? D'où viennent-ils? Il se sent soudain étranger...
La
cinquième l'attire de nouveau par cette voix insistante: Jamais on n'a entendu ni n'entendra parler d'un suicide
pareil, un suicide par poésie. Les flots de poésie s'élèvent,
centimètre par centimètre, pour atteindre bientôt son menton, sa
bouche, son nez. A la fin, on verra seulement les deux yeux grands
ouverts qui s'immobiliseront, vides. Les vagues de poèmes cesseront de
monter. Il faudra
attendre longtemps pour que la poésie se retire complètement
des égouts. Il ne restera que le poète, plaqué au sol, les
ailes déchirées...
Ils parlent toujours de toi, dit-elle d'une voix sèche.
Non, répond-il
en regardant son bureau. Il joue avec le stylo. Ils ne comprennent
rien. Nous ne connaissons pas la mort. Cette notion n'a, par définition,
aucun sens au Paradis.
Il joue toujours avec le stylo. Pourquoi ont-ils menti? Nul ne connaît l'endroit où il vit. Se suicider par poésie? Quelle drôle d'idée! Il n'a jamais composé de poéme. Il laisse seulement couler les mots, qui couvrent à peine le sol d'un centimètre, sans plus. Quant
à lui, son existence est censée ne jamais s'arrêter.
Je t'en prie. Pourquoi écris-tu autant?
Je t'en prie aussi! [10] Répond-il
d'une voix sèche. Je ne sais
Il la
voit se pincer les lèvres. Evidemment, ce n'est pas la première fois que cette
question lui a été posée. Mais il faut oublier ces riens, puisqu'il est capable, par lui-même, d'être le seul contrepoids au monde, de se créer son proper...
Elle aussi, elle semble savoir oublier. En un instant, elle attrape une autre station, l'air indifférent.
La quatrième.
Lecture de poème. Où est-il déjà, [11] Le cri intemporel? Et
maintenant, c’est l’heure de poésie! [12] S'élève
une voix si pressante qu'il dresse les oreilles malgré lui.
... Il marche
Quelle infortune! Qui est cette créature
inconnue capable de porter une si forte
douleur, identique à la sienne? Ce
poème, si court soit-il, le rend jaloux. Eh bien, contrairement à beaucoup
d'autres chefs-d'œuvre qu'il a connus, qui sont inutilement longs et parfaits,
inutilement intelligents et grandioses, et qui ne
valent pas à peine pour lui de se rappeller…
Quel dommage
qu'elle soit insensible à la poésie! Le
bruit du bouton le lui rappelle... Puis la troisième station est de retour...
Toujours des dépêches
sur les récentes découvertes... l'existence des
trous noirs a été confirmée... La nature des trous noirs - un mystère paradoxal
de la realité physique... Encore des choses
serieuses mais qui ne le concernent pas,
lui, ici, au milieu de ce chaos étouffant où se mêlent les odeurs de rat, de cafard et
d'ordure, sous la double pression d'une
tornade grise suspendue quelque part dehors et de cette unique lampe, allumée comme un oeil d'un jaune maladif, chroniquement obsédant [13], qui est verticalement suspendu et [14] ne se ferme jamais...
... De récentes études montrent que sous certaines
conditions... le liquide de l’oeil ne coule pas sur les joues, mais... De nouveau, ces discours explosent sur un ton grave alors ne peut réprimer un bâillement, ce qu'il n'a jamais su faire a temps.
Pendant
qu'il bâille, le bruit ne cesse de parvenir de la radio, même lorsque la deuxième diffuse comme d'habitude
cette dissertation bizarre... Certes, l'énergie doit être
dépensée pour différentes raisons, sous diverses formes. Mais il est dommage de l’utiliser dans le but de mémoriser les choses qui ne sont pas... ou de
croire à quelque chose qui n'est
pas... Oui, même lorsqu'il se retourne, par simple réflexe, pour regarder avec mélancolie à travers la fenêtre, le Tombeau de Dieu...
Comme il brûle de
tourner le bouton vers la neuvième pour
s'immerger dans ce Silence éternel qu'il
n'a jamais entendu! Pourtant, il ne bouge pas, joue
avec son stylo et bâille tranquillement. Enfin, il baisse la tête,
s'absorbe de nouveau dans son écriture, laissant les flots de mots inonder l'espace, impétueusement...
Mais telle est peut-être la seule solution, et il
y demeurera fidèle,
malgré tout, malgré la radio dont le bouton,
après avoir été tourné dans
tous les sens, revient à la première
où viennent juste de s'achever un bulletin d'informations, une dissertation, ou
encore un poème, il n'en est plus sûr...
et il ne restera plus que vous,
mais vous pourrez accomplir votre mission qui est de témoigner du
non-sens mystérieux et éternel de l'existence du
Paradis... Et bien sûr, je me fiche de cette manière de finir, se dit-il.
Chú thích:
1) Mười bốn tác giả trong tuyển
tập Au rez-de-chaussée du paradis: Phan Thị Vàng Anh, Nguyễn Việt Hà, Võ
Thị Xuân Hà, Vũ Quỳnh N.H., Phan Triều Hải, Đỗ Kh., Ngô Tự Lập, Nguyễn Trọng
Nghĩa, Nguyễn Bình Phương, Phan Huyền Thư, Thuận, Nguyễn Ngọc Tú, Bùi Hoằng Vị,
Trần Vũ.
2) Trong văn bản trên, tôi gạch dưới (14 trong số) những
chỗ đã sửa lại vì nxb Philippe Picquier (2005) dịch
chệch nghĩa hoặc bỏ sót không dịch:
[1] mùa ít nóng hay mùa rất nóng à quelle que soit la temperature
[2] treo dọc à Ø
[3] ám à hautaine
[4] hay co xoắn đậm đặc, theo cách nào đó à défini
[5] không thể à veut
[6] thể nghiệm à prouvé
[7] những hữu thể có đuôi à Ø
[8] những lỗ thủng trên à Ø
[9] Phải, anh biết (“anh” ngôi thứ ba giống đực số ít) à Tu sait
[10] Anh van em à Désolé
[11] Đã về đâu rồi à A-t-on déjà fini,
[12] Và bây giờ, thì thơ! à Ø
[13] ám à hautaine
[14] treo dọc à Ø
MỤC LỤC
3 comments:
Translated 2002 by Bùi Ho@ng Vi, as requested by Nguyen Hung Quoc & Hoàng Ngoc Tuan so they could use it in their Anthology of Southeast Asian Literature, expected to be published by Western Australia University, AUS
Published 18.04.2007 in damau.org #24 (http://damau.org/archives/14900)
Tác giả tự dịch 2002 từ truyện ngắn TẦNG TRỆT THIÊN ĐƯỜNG, theo yêu cầu của Nguyễn Hưng Quốc & Hoàng Ngọc Tuấn để họ sử dụng trong Tuyển Tập Văn Học Đông Nam Á do Dennis Haskell chủ biên, mà Đại Học Western Australia (Úc) dự kiến xuất bản vào thời điểm đó. Theo Quốc, anh và Tuấn phụ trách giới thiệu mảng văn học VN đương đại với chín tác giả do họ chọn lựa, gồm sáu thơ - Chánh, Hạo, Linh,… (theo thứ tự alphabet), và ba văn - Hoài, Thiệp, Vị. Cũng theo Quốc, Dennis sau khi đọc các văn bản dịch đã cho biết rất bất ngờ với chất lượng thơ văn đương đại của VN, mà ông xếp vào hạng tốt nhất trong số các quốc gia Đông Nam Á bấy giờ. Song, rất tiếc, với nhà nước Đông Timor mới được thành lập, dự án nói trên đòi hỏi bổ sung, nên đã phải hoãn lại cho đến… “tháng Mười” - hay “bao giờ” - thì họ vẫn chưa thông báo lại.
Nói thêm về bản dịch này, tác giả vẫn muốn sử dụng nó thay vì bản đã được Tôn Thất Huy và Đinh Từ Bích Thúy biên tập lại để công bố ở damau.org 18.04.2007 (http://damau.org/archives/14900)
bất chấp văn bản sau có thể hoàn hảo hơn, vì tác giả-dịch giả muốn trung thành với kết quả lao động dịch thuật của mình.
Năm 2005 nxb Philippe Picquier (Pháp) phát hành tuyển tập truyện ngắn 14 tác giả Việt Nam, do dịch giả Đoàn Cầm Thi thực hiện, trong đó truyện Tầng Trệt Thiên Đường được chuyển ngữ thành Au-rez-de-chaussée du paradis (cũng là tựa chung cho sách ấy); tuy nhiên, bản dịch có một số chỗ bị chệch nghĩa hoặc bị bỏ sót (đối chiếu với bản gốc @ bhvsg.blogspot.com/2008/11/tng-trt-thin-ng.html), không phải vì những chỗ ấy phức tạp khó dịch mà chỉ do thiếu hội ý giữa người dịch với người viết. Tôi chưa bao giờ đồng ý để người khác tùy tiện đổi một chi tiết trong sản phẩm mình, dù qua bản dịch cũng vậy. Mặc dù muộn, tôi (BHV) đề nghị nxb bỏ truyện ngắn đã nói ra khỏi sách, trừ khi những bất cập được họ khắc phục, ít ra cũng như trong văn bản trên đây.
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