Death in Augusta Street

Abstract

Death inAugusta Street TediLopez Mills Translator's note: Tedi Lopez Mills's latest book, Muerte en la r?a Augusta, was published in 2009 by theyoung Oaxaca-based press AImadia and later thatyear won Mexico's prestigious Xavier Villaurrutia Prize. The collection isa narrative sequence of lyricsabout Gordon, a neurotic businessman inFullerton, California, who suffers from a mental breakdown, its resulting incapacitation, and, eventually, self-cannibalization and death. Recurring characters include Gordon; his wife, Donna; his neighbors, friends,and an invisible friend,Anonymous. The book alternates between spells of clipped narrative and lyricreflection,making fora challenging but rewarding process of translation. Here is itsbeginning, along with two other sections found early in thepoem: the firstafter hismental breakdown and the second before. 0 Atop thebody of the man named Gordon (beside a pool, beneath a tree) there was a scrap of paper where someone, maybe even Gordon himself, had scrawled thewords: "Anonymous said: this isneither read nor understood." i On the first morning ofhis new life Mr. Gordon (blessedMr. Gordon) made drawings forhis neighbors' grandchildren & tilled thegarden forhis wife, Donna: look what I planted today - he toldherheliotropes and rosesandgeraniums for you, mudforme,words andwormsfor you, a pebble orwhat do I have here?glass! a dropofblood, Donna, my blood foryou. Thus played Mr. Gordon inhis garden in the suburbs of Fullerton,California, he played and thenhe cried, sprawled on theearth with his drop ofblood, his blackmouth, his immensemouth avenging thatsudden stain, unnecessary stain of silence, after theglass in the face, Donna's soft face: I'm sorry, a thousand times over, until she liftedhim fromthedirt and tookhim inside and cleaned him and cuddled him you remy beast,my littlebeast and she touched his lipswith the tip of a rag& shemuttered Gordon, I hate you, and he laughed. [.. . ] 10 In theorigami book, itsbriefprologue, a single page, Mr. Gordon reads slow very slowly that theartofmaking objects out ofpaper without cutting,gluing, or decorating but just folding it (thepaper) is so ancient itsorigins have been erased fromthebeginning of time, although perhaps, thenext paragraph clarifies, it was born in Japan,where it'sbeen practiced forcenturieswith incomparable skill and isdivided into two categories: 1. figures forceremonies and gifts 2. birds, animals, fish, insects, flowers, furniture. "Some models the prologue ends in exclamation incorporate movement: the stork that flaps its wings when its tail ispulled or the frog that leaps when it is tapped with a fingeron itsback!" Nowhere in thebook does itexplain theartofmaking coyotes inFullerton,California, at the edge of awindow of filthy glass where Gordon plants his face,breathes, and with the steam, traceshis own coyote out of theair and dust fromhis open mouth, and writes: transparent coyote and beneath that in tiny letters:I am Gordon, thenhe waits foraminute, looks again: Mr. Jaimeappears in theyard, pushing his lawnmower behind the shrubs, Gordon closes his eyes, he is aware that the fear that inhabitsone side ofhis heart is justhis soul. I do have one then, he tellshimself, and he draws iton theglass: the shadow of awafer on theglass next to the coyote, how does one drawfear? asks Gordon, he traces a straight line, screeches his fingeron theglass, it mixes with thenoise of the mower, Gordon hears Donna call him fromupstairs but thenoise isa jail, he tellshimself, I can't leave thisplace. [... ] 12 Before inhis freetime in theoffice, when thephone didn't ring, only thebuzz of the fluorescent tubes above his head and desk, Mr. Gordon, his arms crossed, oversleeves loose, resolved to count eveiything once and again: papers, rubberbands, staples, pencils, their sharpeners, pens, markers. He leftthepaperclips until the end; they were like tinyhangers, thepaperclips, they multiplied, they stuck together,there were always more than at thestart, fifty converted bymutual agreement into fifty-four, a hundred intoa hundred-five, fortyinto forty-nine. Gordon was confused. How do theycount themselves without knowing their numbers? Each clipwas a labyrinth with two exits, but Gordon could never findeitheron time, hemoved through the interiorcurve like a mouse in an unknown maze, he scratched his face,lama cat,he said, lama beast, the mouse trapped in the clip moved up and down itscurve repeating: you are not a cat, you are not a beast. You are no one, Gordon, worse than no...