The Characters of Maurizio. Short story by Phan Hồn Nhiên translated from Vietnamese by Doan Cam Thi

Phan Hon Nhien

The Characters of Maurizio
(Short story)

At the end of the street leading to the center rises a swirl of light smoke. When it takes the shape of a mushroom suspended in the middle of a cold white sky, and the fire department siren sounds, the fire becomes obvious. The event leaves the young woman indifferent as she runs. Her breathing remains steady. As she watches, the smoke melts into the landscape and there is no sign of the end of the disaster. Suddenly, around a bend in the road, an Eskimo dog appears with bright blue eyes on its enormous face. A man hastily follows the animal, which he firmly holds on a leash. For a few moments, man and beast form an impromptu group of characters in a setting foreshadowing the tragic scene of a film. The young woman suddenly accelerates. In an instant, she reaches and overtakes the large dog and its master. She accelerates again, breaking her usual morning rhythm.

The fire broke out in the old center district: a two-storey brick house, reputed to be the city's easiest-to-find Italian restaurant. The front wall has just been knocked down. The interior space is revealed to passers-by, in a setting imbued with mystery. While everything has remained intact, every detail that once gave the place its intimacy is now covered in a gray film of soot and ash. Flames shoot out of the doorframe, but overall the fire is under control. It has not spread to the adjoining houses. The minimal distances between the buildings and the weak wind have prevented the fire from spreading. Only one fire hose is still in use. On the grey oak floor, the water cuts a black triangle with sharp edges. The firefighters stow their equipment and wind the hoses onto their reels, like doctors removing infusions from the body of a sick man, healthy in appearance but in a desperate state.

Across the street, in the company of early risers, the young woman watches the fire. No one is talking. Some are taking photos with their phones. When the local TV crew leaves, the onlookers disperse. Only a tall man in his forties, wearing a black woollen jacket, remains. After a few minutes' hesitation, he approaches the young woman.
"Are you attracted to the fire too?"
She turns around and recognizes a fellow student from her contemporary art class. They'd never spoken before.
"I just happened to be passing by. What about you?"
"I got up early to book a train ticket on the Internet. When I saw the swirl of smoke out the window, I stopped everything and came here."
"Nothing serious? I meant the people in the house..."
He shakes his head:
"The building has been uninhabited for thirty years. So have its neighbors. They're rented out by shopkeepers. This block, built in the 1880s, is the oldest in the city. That's probably why the wiring was so old."
"Who'd believe that their house would ever burn down until this happened?"
They burst out laughing, then silence returns.
Across the street, a van pulls up. Out steps a man wearing a black felt hat, an office worker's jacket and pyjama-style striped pants. Two strikingly similar children, presumably his own, sneak out the back door. This restaurant owner must live far away, on the outskirts. While he stands in awe of such a sight, the twins are jumping up and down, so happy at this proximity to the firefighters.

The captain talks to the owner. With moderation and professionalism, he offers explanations, advice and soothing words. The man in pyjamas listens, occasionally wiping away a tear with his palm. The discussion is obviously very moving. But seen from across the street, it's a pure silent film scene, carefully crafted to bring out the contrast between the uniform of a man charged with a heavy responsibility and the disheveled attire of a clown dragged from his bed at an unexpected moment, so that the viewer can gauge the harshness of the world. Yet this image rings so true that it takes on a tragicomic dimension.

The black jacket turns to the running woman:
"Today and tomorrow, are you free?"
She nods. He pulls a tour guide from his jacket pocket:
"Maurizio Cattelan's All exhibition at the Guggenheim opened two months ago. It brings together the Italian artist's most salient works since the 1980s. Some of them, such as La Nona Ora and Him hay Novecento, have provoked controversy..." Suddenly interrupting his enumeration, he moves on to a more realistic question: "This morning I found out that the exhibition will end tomorrow. Would you like to see it?"
"This artist is unknown to me," she says with sincerity.
"So was I until this morning. But a few photos of his work blew me away."
He flips through the museum chapter in the guidebook.
Two joined pages on a white background present two works. A silver-haired Eskimo dog pulling a sled and a medium-sized man with a pink complexion wearing a sports outfit. Caught in motion, they emerge with a mischievous expression whose naturalness and joy are so outrageous that, in the long run, they arouse a dull fear. Without a label indicating the material used and the date of the work, the public could have mistaken these for photos taken by the artist in the street. Leaving the guide and with shivers running down her spine, the woman looks up:
"I want to see this exhibition."
"I'll book two train tickets for this afternoon. Arriving around midnight, we'll have time to see it before it closes."
"So you haven't booked your ticket yet?"
"I was just about to when the fire broke out."
The man and woman look back across the street.
In ten minutes, while absorbed in the exhibition, the firefighters stowed their equipment, erased the last vestiges of the blaze and erected two tarpaulins in front of the charred house, masking the ruin of the ancient street. Only a narrow quadrangular opening lets the firefighters through. Little by little, they climb into the truck, one after the other. The vehicle, with its large ladder analogous to a skeleton in mid-air, silently descends the hill.

The man and woman scrutinize this opening in the tarpaulin where, between his now motionless twins, the pajama-clad owner mumbles a prayer, arms slightly extended, black hat tipped back.

*********************

The train stops for half an hour at Philadelphia station. Attendees of a cardiology conference get off. No one else gets on. Only a dozen passengers remain in the car, continuing on to New York. The space widens as several rows of seats are empty. However, the man in the black jacket doesn't move, even though he could have found a more comfortable seat. So the woman stays beside him. She closes the guidebook, her forehead pressed against the blurred glass. The movement of the train penetrates her skin. An irregular, effervescent sound interferes with the beating of her heart. She seems bewitched by the sound, reminiscent of the city, but fuller and more repetitive. Like many unstable people with no plans, she likes to take the train, especially at night, when the bright, warm interior contrasts with the foggy, cold outside. If her distant gaze detects nothing, the impression of seeing something makes her mind both sharper and calmer.

For example, she thinks about the job she'd given up a few months earlier. Who could have imagined that she would be leaving such a wonderful position in a department where relations were at peace? The decision seemed brutal, but it was not the result of a whim. A distant relative had died, and in his will he had made her his heir. In order not to complicate matters, she had accepted his last will and testament without effusion. But she felt it best to use this unexpected sum in an unexpected way: to take a year's art course. Her internet search had led her to a school that, while not the most reputable, offered attractive courses.

Her boss, who had always considered her a loyal employee, when he signed her professional attestation for the art school, made a few observations about the risks of such a choice. What's the point of upheaval," he said in a loud voice, "which will be disappointing anyway? Unable to answer, she just stared at the reproduction of the painting "U.S. Highway 1, Number 5" displayed behind the big armchair. A long strip of asphalt cut through the landscape, plunging towards a distant horizon. The space was both flat and penetrating. Obscure beauty always arouses astonishment. The boss's undertones were foreign to him at the time. Just as at that moment, from the train, her gaze lost to the cities of the West Coast, she believes that some beings are the result of their own choices. Our existence, whatever its direction and however it is lived, would ultimately take the form of a strange painting, composed by ourselves.

With both hands resting on the tablet, the man in the black jacket is absorbed in his reading, switching from digital to paper and back again. At one point, he looks at his neighbor.
"What are you thinking about?"
"About an image that I compare to my own life."
"What for?" Her ash-gray eyes express a certain amazement.
She tells him about the unexpected inheritance. The ash-gray gaze softens, something like understanding. She interrupts her story, pointing to the book with the red cover featuring an old sailing ship:
"And what about you? What do your readings, like this book for example, bring you?"
"I try to imagine myself as a sea traveler, that's about it. As I read, I incarnate myself in the characters while remaining myself, outside the story. I'd like to make sure that their feelings in the middle of the ocean are just right."
"Just right?"
"There was a time when I traveled constantly at sea. From my home port to another city, at night. At first, I couldn't sleep. But then I didn't want to sleep at all. When you're drifting, thinking takes on a very different form. Repeated trips to the sea will convince us that it, and not dry land, is the best place for existence."
"You're putting our course on symbols and their opposites into practice, aren't you? Sea and land. Mobility and immobility. Instability as the matrix of hopes and stability, void of sensations."
"That's your point of view!" He shrugs and smiles.
"Why did you travel so much?"
"My girlfriend, who was to become my wife, lived in one city, while I worked for a publisher in another. We didn't know where to live. That's why, at the end of the week, I'd take the ferry, which took almost three hours to cross the Strait and an equivalent amount of time to return."
"The ferry crossing gradually became your main objective. More important than meeting your girlfriend."
"How do you know?"
"You mentioned incarnation. A separation, then a surrender of self. You become someone else, for a limited time, in the middle of the strait. Don't we all wish for that?
On the piece of metal attached to the back of the front seat are reflected the man's dimples deepening, an expression of sudden, indescribable fright.
He folds back the tablet. The deplorable image disappears.
The fast-food trolley passes through the carriages, a service maintained for form's sake because by midnight most of the passengers have fallen asleep. But it comforts the duo. Standing by the bellows between two carriages, they watch through the windows as lightning streaks the darkness, sipping hot tea. A feeling emerges in them similar to the one they experienced this morning in front of the fire. The only difference, if there is one, is their incarnation as little twins in front of the protective tarpaulin. As for the clown, he has disappeared with his solitude into the dark passageway.

*********************

On leaving the train, they take two escalators. The station is packed, which seems incredible after three in the morning. Lines of yellow cabs move slowly down the street. On the sidewalk, passers-by are swift. The man walks first and every now and then turns around to make sure the woman is nearby. A sign shows a temperature of 35°F. At the foot of the sign, the door of a café is ajar. Two people have just come out.

The man and woman take their places at a small table. The heat is as penetrating as that of a swarm of bees. Service is quick. They drink a cup of coffee, swallow a few rolls, all the while maintaining the silence they've observed since getting off the train. After clearing the table of crumbs, the man puts down his book and continues his journey as captain. The woman picks up her tour guide, rereads the presentation of Cattelan's exhibition, then opens her computer in search of information about his work. Ancient conservation and taxidermy techniques are systematically employed. The challenge lies in preserving the dead animal with the appearance of life. As for human figures, they are less difficult to produce. Not only is wax easy to handle, but the public more readily accepts deformity or an odd posture in a human being.
The lampshade casts a yellow light onto the table. The shadows of the two heads are printed on their books. The pages turn. They are each finishing their reading when the waiter tells them that it's six o'clock and closing time is imminent. The café has already emptied.
It's freezing. They get off at a subway stop, look at the map, buy tickets on an interactive terminal and take the line to Central Park.
The museum is not far away. By the time they leave the station, the sky has cleared. But it's too early to go anywhere public except a park.
The cold is more bearable. Just a light mist. Unctuous air penetrates their lungs. Sitting on a bench covered with water that forms a kind of lace, the woman pulls her hood over her eyes, imagining she could sleep for a moment, but in vain. At the other end of the bench, chin resting on both hands, the man stares out at the empty space in front of him. They obviously want to talk. About the weather. About their loved ones. About the debates in art class. Their interests. Anything and everything. But asking a question about the other's dark side seems insurmountable. The museum opens at ten. They queue up, buy tickets, put their clothes in the checkroom, take binoculars, cross the fabric barriers and in an instant they are immersed in Maurizio Cattelan's exhibition All. Pigeons. Donkeys. Horses. Squirrels. Rabbit. Sled dogs. These superb animals are arranged loosely or piled up. Picasso in pyjamas. The Pope holding a scepter. Hitler. Firemen. Twins in ceremonial costume. Nude women. New wax human forms, life-size or smaller, in comical positions. Fridge. Chessboard. Rickshaw. Magazines. Bed. Books. Everyday objects hung straight, at an angle or upside down. All weightless in an ingenious steel cable structure attached to the museum's ceiling.

The man and woman walk slowly up the spiral aisle. Their point of view keeps changing. As the tour guide pointed out, Cattelan's sculptures are disturbingly realistic. Sometimes, they pause longer in front of figures with strange, mischievous or ironic expressions. With their binoculars, they scrutinize the features, materials and details that testify to the Italian artist's specialty. A few steps away, a group of art students and their teacher murmur comments on the emptiness of appearances conveyed by human beings. About Cattelan's conception. On the invasion of the image. On the possibility of representing the disorder of the outside and the ruins of the inside... Once the crowd has passed, the man suddenly becomes aware that his partner has disappeared.

He adjusts his binoculars. On the other side of the gallery, the woman straightens up to contemplate the figure in sportswear walking his dog in weightlessness. For several minutes, the man stares at her face, where amazement turns to infinite sadness. For a moment, she seems to turn her desperate gaze towards him. Then, once again impassive, she mingles with Cattelan's characters.

He turns towards her. Spontaneously, they take each other by the hand, follow the spiral path to the top floor. Instead of lowering their eyes to admire the works like these students, they observe the steel cable structure that links figures, animals and objects. Without the slightest comment, they squeeze each other's hands.

In the afternoon, on the train back to their university town, the woman opens the catalog and again contemplates the works she has just seen at the museum. The man leans over, points to the photo of a nude woman whose bust emerges from a white lacquered panel.
"She looks so much like my wife when she was in her prime."
"Oh!"
"She died two years ago. During her long illness, we regretted having made the foolish choice of living on opposite sides of the Strait. She wanted me, after her death, to use the funds from her life insurance policy to buy an apartment and put an end to my nomadism."
"Is that what you did?"
"No. I earmarked most of it for this art course and my stay here, as you can see."
"I know why you did so."
"Yes!" He closes the catalog and straightens up. "The cart will be passing soon. Will you have some hot tea?"
"Gladly. Then I'll take a little nap."
"You're right. I'll sleep too. I'll feel like I'm traveling at sea."


News (from Phan Hồn Nhiên's collection, Hồi Phục, Editions Trẻ, HCMV, 2015) translated from Vietnamese by Doan Cam Thi.
Original title: "Nhân Vật của Maurizio"

Born in 1972, Phan Hồn Nhiên is a graduate of the Vietnam Film and Theatre College. An emblematic figure of the new generation of authors, she lives in Saigon. Her novel Cheval d'acier, translated by Doan Cam Thi, was published in the "Littérature vietnamienne contemporaine" collection, Riveneuve Editions, 2015.

Doan Cam Thi, head of the Vietnamese studies section at Inalco.
Responsible for the collection "Littérature vietnamienne contemporaine" of Riveneuve Editions (Paris)
Member of the editorial board of the revue Siècle 21 (Paris)

Also translated by Phan Hon Nhien: Cheval d'acier, roman, coll. "Littérature vietnamienne contemporaine", Riveneuve Editions, 2015.
https://www.riveneuve.com/catalogue/cheval-dacier-2/