The Vision

Abstract

50 WORLD LITERATURE TODAY photo : jerry bauer The Vision Carmen Boullosa L ast night I dreamed that I was at my dining table with José Manuel Prieto, Eduardo Lago, Eduardo Mitre, and some Anglo-American English speakers—seated as we all had been a few hours earlier. We, the Spanish speakers, had settled in, seeking refuge at one end of the table. We were describing a friend to Lago, a friend who is now deceased, a writer the three of us had known well. We said that he always dressed quite elegantly, we sketched out his clothes with precision—the ones that he wore to one dinner or another—and we repeated his sayings, explaining his particular cadence and intonations in great detail. Eduardo Lago had not known him, but he had read about him, while we three Spanish speakers had done both. I rose from the table. I’m not sure where I was headed, maybe to take up my duties as hostess, when José cried out, almost yelling: “There he is! There, at the head of the table!” But my back was to the table. Sure, I said to myself, yes, clearly it must be him. We have ghosts in this house. I turned, very calmly and far from disturbed, walked the two steps back to the table, and returned to my seat. My friends continued calling out, saying in loud voices: Yes, yes, look, it’s him, here he is. I glanced up to check whether or not I could see anything because I had the sudden impulse to ask him something—and not only did I lose the last bit of my serenity, but my blood ran cold. The sight of the dead man was so disquieting that I could no longer talk or breathe. I awoke with a start. There is one strange detail. I say “the sight of the dead man,” but I did not see him. I have no doubt that he was there because I felt him so distinctly, but when I looked in his direction, he was not before me. I heard how the others there described him, but in my eyes no image was imprinted, though I was the only one who froze in a panic. My three friends, their blood running cold, observed him in detail. But blinded in horror, I saw nothing. Translation from the Spanish By Kristina Zdravič Reardon Q&A with Carmen Boullosa tr. Kristina Zdravič Reardon Q: Is there a quote you like or think is particularly fitting or relevant to very short fiction, whether by a fiction writer or by someone in a field other than literature, be it the arts, sciences, philosophy, religion, or other area? A: “In the beginning was the Word.” Q: Do you have a favorite flash story or writer, or favorite book of very short fictions? A: I have a favorite writer: Silvina Ocampo, co-editor with J. L. Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares of the classic Antología de la literatura fantástica (1971). She is in no hurry. But she always manages to be so unexpected and disturbing. Q: What are you reading now? A: I am rereading the prose of Amado Nervo, an author who was very popular before World War I. I’m especially interested in his fiction, and specifically the pieces that incorporate the fantastic. He was very influential for Cortázar, Bioy Casares , and, without a doubt, Borges. Q: What does flash fiction offer readers that slow fiction doesn’t? A: I don’t really know that I’m a fan of “flash.” I am not a good judge. . . . I am in favor of “slow food” and “slow fiction.” SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2012 51 History Will Not Be Made on This Couch Hisham Bustani To the revolutionaries of Egypt who left their couches and burnt their televisions I t’s raining again. Like the winters of my childhood. But my head has changed and is covered in scars. It’s not as light as it used to be. It’s raining. A shower of the Imam’s heavy words falls on my head from the nearby minaret. The last Friday in January isn’t a regular...