Saturn E-Book

Jacek Dehnel

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Saturn is a fictionalised version of the personal life of the great Spanish Painter Goya. The story is narrated by Goya, his son Javier and his grandson Mariano. The deeply flawed relationship between the three generations produce an atmosphere of psychological tension.The story is built around the theory that Goya's horrific series of Black Paintings were in fact the work of his son Javier, and were Javier's way of expressing his feelings about his father. Each of the paintings features as an illustration within the book. Saturn will appeal to readers of historical novels and anyone interested in Goya, his work and art in general.

Leseprobe

For my mother, a painter

The Author

Jacek Dehnel is a poet, novelist, painter and translator. He was born in 1980.

In 2005 he was one of the youngest ever winners of Poland’s Koscielski Prize for promising new writers. He studied Polish literature at Warsaw University then wrote his PHD thesis on the Polish translations of Philip Larkin, some of whose poetry he has translated himself. He has published four volumes of his own poetry which has been widely translated including into English.

The Translator

Antonia Lloyd-Jones is a full-time translator of Polish literature.

Her published translations include fiction by several of Poland’s leading contemporary novelists, including The Last Supper by Pawel Huelle, for which she won the Found in Translation Award 2008. Her most recent translations include The Night Wanderers by Wojciech Jagielski (Seven Stories, February 2012), reportage about the child victims of the Lord’s Resistance Army and the events in Uganda which led to its emergence. She also translates biographies, poetry, and books for children.

When the present provides little joy and the months ahead portend nothing but repetition, the way to cheat monotony is by storming the past. From what one cannot tell anyone about one’s life, one extracts the tiny splinters and the little bits of fluff, and transfers them to the hearth of the Roman patricians or the domiciles of the ancient Hebrews.

Pascal Quignard, Pascal Quignard le solitaire

Tell me who invented the father, and show me the branch they hanged him on.

Contents

Title

Dedication

The Author

The Translator

Quote

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Chapter XXXIX

Chapter XL

Chapter XLI

Chapter XLII

Quotation

Glossary

Copyright

I

Javier:

I came into the world on Disappointment Street. Only when I was eight or ten years old did I hear, while hiding in the pantry, our cook telling the knife grinder where that name came from: long ago four handsome majos were chasing a beautiful girl, running down our street, right here, just under the windows of our house, which wasn’t yet standing, past the front of the shop selling perfumes and gold pendants which hadn’t yet opened and where old don Feliciano wasn’t working because he hadn’t even been born; and this girl came running, oh how she ran, and those majos were chasing after her, oh how they chased her, until they caught her; and in their ardour they tore off whole pieces of her clothing, ripped off her mantilla and the shawl she held across her face – and then they stood rooted to the spot, for there beneath the silks and satins they saw putrid flesh, the skull of a corpse coated in dry skin, the yellow teeth grinning. As they scattered in all directions, in seconds the body had turned to dust, all the ribbons and flounces too, and from then on the place was known as Disappointment Street. So said the cook, holding her sides – as I saw through the keyhole in the pantry door – brawny, ruddy, illuminated by a stream of sparks, as the knife grinder, who didn’t know the story because he came from somewhere outside Madrid, set a succession of knives and scissors to his spinning stone, nodding and muttering between one rasp of metal and the next. But my father – even if he didn’t actually say it, didn’t actually spit it out with the other insults he hurled at me – always believed, I am utterly convinced of this, that the street was so named because I, Javier, was born in a house that stood on it, in a small upstairs chamber within the apartment of the portraitist and deputy director of the Santa Bárbara Royal Tapestry Factory, soon to be royal painter, Francisco Goya y Lucientes.

Francisco:

When Javier was born, still on Calle de Desengaño, the older children were no longer alive; neither the first born, Antonio, nor Eusebio, nor little Vicente, nor Francisco, nor Hermengilda; not even her name could help María de Pilar, the name by which we commended her to the care of Our Lady of Zaragoza. I never told Javier this – for in those days I tried not to pamper the children, but to bring up my son to be a real man, not like now, when my heart has gone soft and I have been turned into a teary old pantaloon, deaf as a post to boot, which is a great help in bearing the children’s shrieks – and so: I never told Javier this, but when La Pepa gave birth to him and was lying in bed, exhausted, with strands of black hair stuck to her perspiring brow as the light falling from the window cast a great stain across it, as if of lead white, I rushed into the city and cried to all whom I knew and all whom I did not that there was no finer sight in Madrid than this boy.

After him we went on trying, fearing that he too would not stay with us for long; my dear departed wife, Josefa Bayeu, or simply La Pepa, if she were not dressing, was lying in bed – either in labour, or, if she had miscarried, with yet another haemorrhage. Once I even tried to count up, and it had happened twenty times. But, unfortunately, only Javier survived. Unfortunately only, and unfortunately Javier.

II

Old People

Old age is revolting. Its smells and textures. Runny eyes with bloodshot corners, balding eyelashes and brows, drooping folds of flesh, liver spots. Its gluttony as it sucks up the scraps, its greedy way of lunging for its bowl with loud slurping.

They say it is a fine thing for two people to grow old together. Does one become verminous and mangy in a finer way in company than on one’s own? Of all the sabbats in the world the sabbat of old age is the most horrific, for which the young men come plodding instead of running, with masks made of wrinkled skin placed over their smooth faces.

The eye, no weaker than the rest of the body, sees only the strongest contrasts: a patch of light on the tip of the nose just above the dark line of the toothless mouth. Cadaverous, black shadows beneath overhanging brows, and around them the clear circles of the cheeks and forehead. The gleam of a silver spoon above the hollow of the plate, the slurping, the emaciated fingers emerging from the gloom of a wide sleeve. And the black pupils, enlarged by desire, surrounded by the whites of goggling eyes. Oh, to gorge oneself on life before it ends!

Oh, what disgust we feel when we look at our parents as they change into moulting, insatiable beasts, broken machinery, leaking vessels.

Oh, what incomprehension we feel as we look at our children when they see us as moulting, insatiable beasts, broken machinery, leaking vessels. Inside we are still a young lad with ambitions, who travels to the big city with just one small bundle; we are a young, not bad-looking girl, who says to herself: “Oh, life, we’ll soon see who’ll be the master of whom!”

III

Javier:

Life’s good to him over there, in France. They tell me everything here. There he sits, a widower far from his wife’s grave, satisfied, the old fox, the well-fed badger, the grizzled grouse, painting trite inanities, miniatures on ivory, doing nice little drawings; Leocadia makes him food, takes care of him and cuts his apples into quarters, in person, because he doesn’t like the taste of the ones the servant prepares, and then she gives herself to anyone who happens along – there’s no lack of opportunity in Bordeaux; apparently lately it’s some German, who doesn’t even know she isn’t as weiss as she looks. Rosario, sorry, I mean little Ladybird – he never calls her anything but “little Ladybird” – sits beside him and they “create together”. In a single flourish he draws something – not necessarily an image that is suitable for a little girl of her age, even if she is the daughter of a harlot and has seen a thing or two – and she crudely tries to repeat it. A curved line where it should be straight, a straight line where it should be curved, but above all a boring line. Boring, monotonous, charmless. Then the old man takes another sheet and – I can just see it, I can see it – muttering something incomprehensible to himself, just as he always has done, and if not always, then at least since he went deaf, in a single gesture turns a piece of paper into a banknote: a witch flying with a skipping rope, an old cuckold and his young wifey (it never occurs to him that he’s portraying himself), or a condemned man being garrotted; in short, a perfect drawing, for which I’d at once have several buyers. And he gives it to that little bantling. Blinking, fidgeting beside him on her chair, smiling now and then, she sticks out her little lizard tongue, surely inherited from her mother, and “shades it in”, in other words she scrawls her dull strokes all over the folds of cloth, pieces of background, and clouds of hair, while the old man says “lighter”, “darker”, “lighter”. And so, eagerly working away in league with each other, they change banknotes into scribbles good for nothing but rolling paper for tobacco.

Francisco:

Life’s good to me over here in France, but it’s bad to me here in old age. When the sunlight is strong – though not as strong as in Madrid – I can see better, and then I get down to some painting. I no longer have the strength for large canvases, in any case I can hardly move at all. There’s a young fellow here who has escaped from Spain, de Brugada; he spends a lot of time with us and takes me for walks, and has even learned how to talk to me – not as before, when he wrote on scraps of paper that I found hard to decipher, but using his hands, according to Father Bonet’s system. The day before yesterday I told him off for waving his paws about, as if he wanted to tell the whole neighbourhood that not only can old Goya hardly drag his pins along, but he’s also deaf, deaf, deaf as a post, deaf as a stone, a brush, a doorknob, deaf as a bundle of old rags that moves by black magic. I must stink of piss, for I have an ailing bladder, but I can’t smell it myself, I haven’t my old sense of smell that could sniff out a juicy quim coming down the street… I can just see how others grimace when I come too near, but as they don’t want to cause me grief they hide their scowls, which is even more humiliating. I wear three pairs of spectacles. Three pairs of spectacles on one big snout. Not the biggest one at that. My sight is failing me, and so are my hands. I am lacking in everything, except willpower.

For some time I worked on lithographs, I drew bulls from memory… Brugada helped me, he set the stone on the easel, he fixed it in place, and then I scrawled away at it, scratched away with a razor, holding a large magnifying glass in my other hand, for without it I could hardly see a thing – but twice the stone broke free of the easel, once it came close to crushing my foot, just scraping the edge of my boot, and the second time it thudded to the floor with little Rosario standing only three paces away. Of course all my work was for nothing. And that second time I had a beautiful scene, almost finished. I gave up on it. I have even less strength for large canvases, but my little Ladybird has grown big enough to paint by now, and I’m thinking of sending her to Paris to study, I’ve even dispatched a couple of letters, perhaps Ferrer would find her a place at Martin’s – apparently he’s not bad. It won’t be a waste of money, because there is someone to train, not like that arse Javier, who is incapable of getting down to anything, but just lies about like a larva, like a fatty lump of meat in a roasting tin, in its congealed juices; he doesn’t fancy coming to see me, he doesn’t fancy hauling that obese rear-end of his across the Pyrenees, so I, an old boy, must travel there and back again like a young lark, or else I’ll never see my lovely Marianito. As if they couldn’t drop their business for a while – anyway, what sort of business do they have there? – to come and see their father who has one foot in the grave. But there is little Ladybird, it’s worth spending time on Ladybird, I even showed her drawings in Madrid – all the professors at the Academy were thrilled and said she was like a little Raphael in skirts, like a little Mengs in satins. Compared with her, Mengs is a pipsqueak. The world has never seen such a talent before. So we sit together, I draw something for her on a scrap of paper, and she carefully copies it – how much industry there is in it, how much fluency, what a lovely line! There’s no expertise yet, it’s true, but you can sense genius. Goya can sense genius. So she does her drawing, Leocadia bustles about the house or goes out to the town; after all, a woman has to get something out of life, we are in France, not in Spain, I’m not going to keep her at home under lock and key, am I? So she draws, I fetch some small flakes of ivory out of the drawer, some paints and very thin brushes, then looking through my magnifying glass, first I lay a dark undercoat of soot taken from the lamp, then I drip a few drops of water onto it. What worlds are there, how many figures are teeming there, how many ghosts and desires – cripples, prisoners, pot-bellied dwarves, old witches; I look through my glass and am filled with amazement at how much can be happening on such a tiny tile, as the water dissolves the soot. And then, chop-chop, I set about painting. If it doesn’t come out well, and more and more often it doesn’t, I scrape it off without regret, because I know that water dissolves black in full harmony with the current of my thoughts, and will immediately summon up something even better. Something more painful.

I used to sit with Javier too, just as I do with little Ladybird – I used to think to myself that if my dear papa, a common gilder, had spawned an artist like me, then what would my son achieve! So I thought about all of them in turn: about Antonio, Eusebio, Vicente and Francisco, but they all died, few of them lived long enough to be able to hold a pencil in his hand, let alone to amaze the world with his talent; even with Javier so many times it was just a step, just a whisker away – like the time when he had smallpox and I carried him in my arms all night long, instead of doing some painting or humping some wench; burning with fever, exhausted from crying, he would fall asleep for a moment, then at once wake up again; when I told the king about it he was so moved that he seized me by the hand and shook it for a long time, and then began to play the violin, which was probably meant to bear witness that the old dotard felt for me. And since he did not have a second fiddler behind the curtain to play the difficult passages, as he did during performances before the court, and since I was not yet deaf, I did not find it easy… Oh well, each man sympathizes by whatever practice he can afford – by means of my masterpieces I showed sympathy for all of living, bleeding Spain, he showed sympathy for a sick child and his father by sawing away at the fiddle. And a good thing too. But not just that time, either; all through Javier’s childhood I did my best not to get accustomed to him; I was afraid he would depart this life like the son before, or like the ones Pepa miscarried afterwards: bloody shreds, filth on the sheets, monstrosities that I would prefer, like so many other horrors, not to have before my eyes, but I can see them all the time – when I close my eyes, when I’m sleeping, or waking, as I gaze at a drop of water dissolving the black on a tile of ivory, I see not just corpses shot dead against a wall, not just nuns raped by French mercenaries, but those hideous things that came out of her too: dwarves, homunculi that would fit on the palm of your hand; one with an overgrown head, another with no legs at all, horrible, horrible.

But one survived, and it was with him that I used to sit as I now do with Rosario – ah, those were the finest times, when I could see how he was becoming a faithful copy of his own father, bah, his, that is my masterwork; how he took the brushes from their case, the spatulas, pieces of wire and scrapers, how he examined various pigments and asked what they were made of… and yet there was no genius in him; I could sense that almost from the very start, but I deceived myself that something would still grow out of him; what an idea. For chattering, prattling on about pigments, about colours he was the first – but when he had to set about the canvas, or the paper, he was so fussy, so timid, now he was too shy, now he couldn’t do it, now this, now that; until sometimes I thought he was doing it on purpose, to spite me, so I told him off a few times, gave him a good hiding as you do a boy, and after that it got even worse. He didn’t want to paint with me, he didn’t want to come to the studio, he was more and more indolent and taciturn. I don’t know where he got it from, certainly not from me. It appears to come from his mother. But though indeed taciturn, she was a hard-working woman. She didn’t know much, nor did she say much, all the better. She just liked to get dressed up. But don’t all women like to do that?

Javier:

Not that he didn’t allow me to sit beside him like that too. He did. As long as he was in Madrid, of course, as long as he was in a good mood and had at least a tiny bit of consideration for me; for sometimes he would paint for days on end, furiously, muttering compound insults under his breath, and then he would continue long into the night, in a top hat to which he would attach several candles, always of the best quality, which gave the strongest and whitest light possible; if there were none of those left, he made a scene, woke my mother and the servants, and sent somebody to the shop to bang on the door until the owner got up, opened it and sold the best-quality candles for Señor de Goya, the well-known raving lunatic. And he would also go on trips – he would get a commission here or there, paint a minister at his estate or a countess at her palace, or a large canvas for some church, which he must of course see with his own eyes to know where the light fell from, the exact shade of the stone the walls were made of when it changed colour in the sunlight, from what distance and from what angle it would be looked at, and thus what foreshortening to apply. He would vanish for whole weeks at a time, no matter whether for his work or to go hunting with his school-friend, Zapater… He merely informed my mother; anyway, even if she had known what he sometimes said about himself and about Alba, even if he had told her: I’m going to see the duchess and I intend to have a very good time, she would only have lowered her gaze, because that was all she was capable of doing. Well, and laying herself wide open to him, if the time came for yet another pregnancy, yet another miscarriage.

But when I was nine years old, he went away for ages – not that it didn’t happen often, but this time he disappeared for longer than he had predicted; letters came from Cadiz, but written in someone else’s hand – by then I could already recognize his sloping, rather crooked handwriting with long whiskery s’s and y’s – my mother would sit in her room for days on end, or in a sudden fit would come running in to me and start to hug and kiss me, urgently, excessively, so that I wanted to break loose of those starched cuffs and stiff lace as fast as possible; if in my struggle I happened to glance at her, I would see that her eyes were all puffy from weeping, with thin red rings around them, so bloodshot that the whites were entirely pink; her features would have coarsened with despair, just as they often did when she was pregnant; she looked pitiful, so I only had to peep at her, and I hadn’t the heart to go on trying to escape, but would freeze like a sparrow caught in a net when taken hold of, and I would wait for her to satisfy her need for an insistent embrace. But generally I managed to avoid the sight of her face, I wriggled to right and left like a wild thing, rather than have to look at her – then I could break free and run away to the kitchen or the patio.

He came back horribly wasted away – the coachman and the servant actually carried him into the house, leaning on their arms – he was bluish, greenish, as if moulded from dirty wax, horribly emaciated, with his head wrapped in a white scarf; but the strangest thing was the almost total silence that accompanied this scene. No joyful shouts, no greetings, no issuing of orders; if my mother had to say anything, she said it in a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the solemn silence. Every rustle of her dress, every tap of her heel seemed too loud.

Only that evening, as the serving maid put me to bed, did she tell me: “You poor child, now your papa is totally deaf”.

After that he lay in bed for a few months more – his face filled out, he started drawing in a notebook, and being grumpy, like the typical recovering patient. He was constantly calling for something or losing his temper because he couldn’t paint; and as he had gone deaf he was terribly noisy; his powerful voice could be heard all over the house, from don Feliciano’s shop on the ground floor, where it made the glass vials of perfume gently shake and jingle, right up to the attic, where it set the drying sheets asway. “Javieeer,” he screamed, “Javieeer, come to your papaaa!” and I would run off wherever I could, just as earlier I had run from my mother’s possessive clasp.

Having a handicap means being a stranger. A man who has lost a hand is by no means the same man as before, but simply without a hand. He is a man who instead of a hand has a hand missing, a completely new body part which one may not look at, and which one should not mention, to avoid causing distress. For just as instead of a hand, the body now has a hand missing, so the soul too, instead of something, has something missing, a painful, festering, sensitive organ. And those who lose a sense, lose incomparably more – the whole world accessible only by means of that sense; bah, even more than that. Not just the tune of the zarzuelas, not just the way in which La Tirana uttered the words from the stage, with that burbling chirruping in your ear, that cooing, but the murmur of whispers drifting across the auditorium, the cries coming from the furthest rows, the bravos, that communal wave of noises by which everyone, in unison, thanked her for the sounds that she had delivered from behind the footlights, like two seas opposite each other – the spectators’ hundreds of throats against her one, unparalleled throat. And the sainetes that used to make him roar with laughter, all those little scenes with crafty orange girls and gallant majos, with opinionated doctors and smart street urchins who always get their way – oh, he used to learn the songs by heart and sing them afterwards while working, even years on, when he couldn’t hear himself and was horribly out of tune; all this he lost. Nor was there any more dressing himself up to go out, squeezing himself into the braided jackets and gold-edged breeches he was so proud of (though it was a long time since he had had the waist of a torero, which my mother never failed to mention under her breath)… And the scores he used to send to his beloved Zapater, the scores of the sainetes and seguidillas, how much trouble he would have with that, running about the stalls to get the latest hits! He would pack them all up and send them by post-horse to Zaragoza, and when he came home he’d say: “That is my last farewell to music – let Martín enjoy it, from now on I’m never going back to the places where I could hear those songs… I’ve told myself I must stick to some damned principles, and maintain a certain damned dignity that’s due to a man!” – and thus he would mutter to himself the whole way back to the house, but even so that night he would go out, dressed in one of his embroidered majo jackets, and laugh himself to tears at others who were just like him. But the moment he lost his hearing, he never put on a majo jacket again, not even for a joke, as if those were the clothes of a dead man.

Francisco:

There are things it is impossible to talk about. You can only paint them. And to tell the truth, not even that is possible either.

Javier:

And so he dragged himself from bed to the easel a stranger. Above all a stranger to us, for no words were getting through to him; he would sit in his studio like a fish in a dark, brown tank covered in unusual algae – rolls of canvas, the skeletons of picture stretchers, and scraped-off paint – and work without respite, often at night, which meant he used even more candles than before, and his clothes and the entire studio floor were spattered in pearly trails and drops of wax; he took every single commission, anything to prove he could still paint, and started going to meetings at the Academy, to put a stop to all the rumours that “Goya is finished”, which the malicious daubers were spreading, and he’d sit at those gatherings, not understanding a word, but making – or so I imagine – a wise face, as if he could hear every last little word and was weighing it profoundly; he painted terrifying pictures on tin – a fire, shipwrecks on a bare rock, bandits butchering travellers, a prison, madmen teeming in hospital corridors; to this day I have entire scenes stamped upon my memory: faces twisted in terror, distorted hands, despairing gestures; I would creep up as close as possible and watch from a hiding place, from behind a canvas or a chair, as panting, muttering, moving away from the picture and running back up to it, he applied the greasy, oily black of manacles to the canvas, splashes of white foam spraying a corpse, red-and-brown, dry stains – blood soaking into the sand under the wheels of a stagecoach. If he realized I was standing nearby – noticing me out of the corner of his eye, on feeling my breath tickling the back of his left hand when he let it drop, or simply on sensing someone’s presence, somebody’s attention focused on him, as happens to any of us at times, he would turn round abruptly and drive me out of the door; sometimes this bore the hallmarks of a game: he would hoot, bark and growl menacingly, and tickle me under the arms; but as a rule he was truly angry, especially when he was painting a scene from the madhouse – at once he covered it with a sheet and seized hold of a wooden slat or a rag to chase me out of the studio. Then he sent the picture off with a letter to Zapater – I don’t know what his heirs have done with it – and painted himself another one, exactly the same, a few years later. In any case, I was unable to communicate with him. He could not yet lip-read, and I was almost unable to write; he would lose patience as I slowly and laboriously set down each letter in turn, and he would try to guess the words; if he succeeded, he would wait for the next one, then try to guess the one after that, but at some point he would forget what the first word had been, and grow even more furious. That was when I realized why we had a large house. Large houses are for escaping. And if someone is deaf it is even easier to hide from him; you can run from room to room right behind his back – but lightly, so that his feet won’t feel the floor shuddering; when you are ten years old you can run lightly, as light as a feather. I learned to write quickly and clearly, so that our conversations should last as short a time as possible, and this seemed to bring on the desire to read – my father was not fond of books, my mother only had a missal, but at my school, run by the priests, apart from some dreadfully boring screeds of prayers, there were a few interesting books from better times, long ago. Once I had grown up a bit and had more audacity, I used to ask some of my father’s acquaintances to tell me which books they especially valued, and if I couldn’t find them in the Piarists’ library, on their next visit I would beg to borrow them; of course I wasn’t allowed to pester the guests in the drawing room, but I could stand before them (straight as a ramrod, with sweaty hands) in the hall as they entered or exited the house; I often got a clip round the ear from the serving maid or from my parents, but sometimes the desired book was later put into my hands, and I would rush straight off to my room to start reading it. Señor Martínez, who one time came for a longer stay on business from Cadiz and was quite often at our house, tried to persuade my father to send me to school abroad, but he replied curtly: “Javier is a painter. A born painter. He gets it from me. Any studying except for the study of painting is a waste of time for him. Not to mention money. And the same goes for books. A damned waste. He squanders so much good light.”

But above all, on going deaf my father became a stranger to himself, to his former self; he changed his habits, his tone of voice, and his way of working; he lost his temper over anything at all. It is true he always was a hothead, but now he was like a wolf caught in a trap, which bites anyone who happens to come along, even though every jump and snap of its teeth make the snares dig deeper into the flesh and bone of its paw.