The Adventures of the Ingenious Alfanhui E-Book

Rafael Sanchez Ferlosio

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This is the first English translation of The Adventures of the Ingenious Alfanhui, a picaresque novel in which the hero, a magical little boy, goes in search not of his fortune but of knowledge, growing both wiser and possibly sadder in the process. 'In his dedication, Ferlosio describes this exquisite fantasy novel, first published in 1952 and now beautifully translated into English as a 'story full of true lies.' Much honored in his native Spain, Ferlosio is a fabulist comparable to Jorge Borges and Italo Calvino, as well as Joan Miro and Salvador Dali. Cervantes comes to mind. Ferlosio's prose is effortlessly evocative. A chair puts down roots and sprouts 'a few green branches and some cherries,' while a paint-absorbing tree becomes a 'marvelous botanical harlequin.' Later, Alfanhui sets off on a tour of Castile, meeting his aged grandmother 'who incubated chicks in her lap and had a vine trellis of muscatel grapes and who never died.' This is a haunting adult reverie on life and beauty and as such will appeal to discriminating readers.' Starred review in Publisher's Weekly

Leseprobe

The Author

Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, the son of a Spanish father and an Italian mother, was born in Rome in 1927. He is one of Spain’s most celebrated novelists, and yet he has written only three novels, his reputation as a novelist being based largely on his first two novels: The Adventures of the Ingenious Alfanhuí (1951) and El Jarama (The River) (1956), for which he won both the Premio Nadal and the Premio de la Crítica. One is a children's fantasy for adults, an extraordinary, magical revisiting of the Spanish picaresque tradition. The other is a minute dissection of one tiny chunk of reality, namely sixteen hours in the lives of eleven friends out spending the day near the Jarama river. Both are exquisitely written and unlike anything else. Since their publication, both have acquired the status of classics in Spain. Ferlosio, however, abandoned the narrative form in the 1980s and has since concentrated on the essay, in which he reflects on all manner of things: history, war, religion, society, globalisation, fanaticism, literature, etc. Like his novels, his essays and his views are highly original.

His work has brought him many prizes, among them the Premio Cervantes in 2004 and, in 2009, the Premio Nacional de las Letras in recognition of his lifetime’s work.

On Ferlosio’s 90th birthday in December 2017, he published Páginas escogidas (Selected Writings), a collection of his stories, poems, and essays.

The Translator

Margaret Jull Costa has translated the works of many Spanish and Portuguese writers. Her work has brought her many prizes, among them: the Portuguese Translation Prize for The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa in 1992 and for The Word Tree by Teolinda Gersão in 2012; the translator’s portion of the 1997 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award for Javier Marías’s A Heart So White; the 2000 and 2011 Weidenfeld Translation Prize for, respectively, All the Names and The Elephant’s Journey, both by José Saramago; the 2008 Pen Book-of-the Month-Club Translation Prize and the 2008 Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize for The Maias by Eça de Queiroz; the 2015 Marsh Children’s Fiction in Translation Award for The Adventures of Shola by Bernardo Atxaga; the 2017 Best Translated Book Award (with her co-translator Robin Patterson) for Chronicle of the Murdered House by Lúcio Cardoso; and the 2018 Premio Valle-Inclán for On the Edge by Rafael Chirbes.

In 2013, she was appointed a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature; in 2014, she was awarded an OBE for services to literature and, in 2018, the Ordem do Infante D. Henrique by the Portuguese government.

TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The translator would like to thank Annella McDermott and Ben Sherriff for all their help and advice.

CONTENTS

TITLE

THE AUTHOR

THE TRANSLATOR

TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

EPIGRAPHS

PART ONE

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

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

PART THREE

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

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

Epigraphs

‘I sowed wild oats along the banks of the Henares.’

The wild ideas that were in my head and found such fertile ground in Castile were all sown for you.

This Castilian story, full of true lies, was written for you.

The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light.

Matthew 6:22

PART ONE

I

Concerning a weathercock who caught some lizards and the uses to which these were put by a little boy

One night, a weathercock, cut out of a sheet of metal, and which stands, fixed, sideways on to the wind and has but a single eye which can be seen from either side, came down from the roof of the house and started searching among the stones for lizards. It was a moonlit night, and the weathercock pecked the lizards to death with its iron beak. It hung them up on nails in staggered rows on the white, windowless wall that faces east. It put the larger ones on the top row and the smaller ones on the bottom row. The lizards, though freshly dead, were nonetheless embarrassed, because the little gland that secretes the red of blushes or rather the yellow of embarrassment – for lizards turn cold and yellow when embarrassed – had not yet dried up.

But as time passed, the lizards were parched by the sun, they turned a blackish colour, and their skin shrank and shrivelled. Their tails bent towards the south because that side of the lizards shrank more in the sun than the side that faced north where the sun never goes. And thus the lizards ended up looking like scorpions, all leaning in one direction, and now that their skin had lost colour and firmness, they were no longer embarrassed.

And after still more time had passed, the rains came and beat against the wall where they were hanging, drenching them and washing out of their skins a liquid like dark green rust, which trickled down the wall to the ground. A boy placed a tin can beneath each trail and, by the time the rains were over, he had filled each of those tin cans with liquid which he then placed in a basin to dry.

Everything had been drained out of the lizards by then, and when the days of sun returned, all you could see along the wall were a few small, white skeletons covered in a fine, transparent film, like the sloughed skins of snakes, barely visible against the whitewashed wall.

But the boy had more fellow feeling for the lizards than for the weathercock and, one windless day when the weathercock could not defend itself, he climbed up on to the roof, pulled the weathercock down, threw it in the furnace and started working the bellows. The cockerel creaked amongst the charred logs as if still turning in the wind, and it changed from red to yellow to white. When it realised it was beginning to melt, it bent over and, with all its remaining strength, embraced a large lump of coal in order not to be entirely lost. The boy stopped working the bellows and threw a bucket of water over the fire, which went out with a hiss like a cat, and the weathercock remained clasped for ever to that piece of coal.

The boy went back to his basin and saw that, left in the bottom, there was a brown sediment, like fine clay. Over the days, the water had evaporated in the heat, leaving only dust. The boy separated out the grains and made a pile of them on a white handkerchief in order to study the colour. And he saw that the dust was made up of four colours: black, green, blue and gold. So he took a piece of silk and sifted out the finest grains, which was the gold; then he sifted the blue through a piece of linen and the green through a sieve, leaving only the black.

Of the four, he used the first, the gold, to gild doorhandles; he used the second, the blue, to fill a tiny hourglass; the third, the green, he gave to his mother to dye lace curtains, and the fourth, the black, he used to learn how to write.

His mother was thrilled by her son’s ingenuity and, as a reward, she sent him to school. All his classmates envied him his ink because it was so bright and pretty, with a sepia tone none of them had ever seen before. However, the boy learned a strange alphabet that no one else understood and he had to leave the school because the teacher said he was setting a bad example. His mother shut him up in a room with a pen, an inkwell and paper and told him she wouldn’t let him out until he had learned to write like everyone else. But once he was alone, the boy got out his inkwell and started writing in his strange alphabet on a torn scrap of white shirt he had found hanging from a tree.

II

Where we learn how the boy escaped from his room and about his adventure

That room was the ugliest in the house, and the weathercock had ended up there too, still clasping its piece of coal. One day, the boy started talking to the weathercock, and the poor cockerel, its mouth all twisted, told him it knew many things and that, if the boy set it free, it would teach him those things. So they made their peace, and the boy removed the piece of coal and straightened the cockerel out. And they talked all day and all night, and the cockerel, who was older, taught the boy all it knew, and the boy wrote everything down on the scrap of shirt. When his mother came in, the cockerel would hide because they did not want her to know that a weathercock could speak.

From his position at the top of the house, the cockerel had learned that the red of sunsets was a kind of blood that flowed along the horizon at that hour in order to ripen the fruit, especially apples, peaches and almonds. This was what the boy liked most of the many things the cockerel was teaching him, and he pondered how he could collect some of that blood and what he could do with it.

On a day which the cockerel deemed to be right, the boy took the sheets from his bed, as well as three copper pots, and ran off with the cockerel towards the horizon they could see from the window. They reached an empty plateau, on the edge of which was the distant horizon that could be seen from the house, then they waited for the sun to go down and for the blood to flow.

They watched the gradual approach of a pink cloud, then a reddish mist enfolded them, and there was an acrid smell of iodine and lemons. Finally, the mist turned entirely red and all they could see was that extraordinarily dense light, halfway between carmine and scarlet. Now and then a lighter tone would appear, green or gold. The mist grew redder and redder, darker and thicker, shutting out the light, until they found themselves plunged into a scarlet night. The mist began to exude at first a kind of dampness and then a very fine, light, scattered drizzle that soaked and reddened everything. The boy picked up the sheets and began waving them about in the air until they were completely red. Then he wrung them out in the copper pots and once more waved them about in the air until they were again drenched. And he repeated this until the three pots were full.

The mist was now a reddish black, veined with blue. The bitter, musky smell was becoming transformed into a lighter smell, suggestive of animal violets. The light began to grow brighter again, and the mist took on a bruised, purple tinge because the blue streaks had mingled with the red. The dampness diminished and the mist gradually cleared. The smell like animal violets became more subtle and plant-like. The mist was thinning and becoming an increasingly pale bluish pink, until, finally, it lifted completely and they could see again. Up above, the sky was white and cloudless, and the air was filled by the perfume of lime blossom and white roses. Below, they could see the sun sinking, bearing away with it the scarlet and carmine mists. It was growing dark. The three pots were full of the thick, red, almost black blood. It was boiling, sending up large, slow bubbles that burst noiselessly like blown kisses.

That night they slept in a cave, and the following morning, they washed the sheets in a river. The water in the river became stained with red, ripening and corrupting everything it touched. A pregnant mare drank from the river and turned completely white and transparent because all her blood and colour went straight to her foetus, which could clearly be seen inside her womb, as if inside a bell jar. The mare lay down on the green grass and expelled the foetus. Then she got up and walked slowly away. It was as if she were made of glass, with a white skeleton revealed underneath. The brilliantly coloured foetus, deposited on the short grass, was contained in a bag of water which was covered in a network of fine green and red veins that flowed into a purple cord out of which the liquid was slowly seeping. The little horse was fully formed. It had a chestnut coat and a large head and prominent eyes surrounded by perfect eyelashes; it had a taut belly and slender legs that ended in hooves made of cartilage that was still soft; its mane and tail floated in the mucous, syrupy liquid inside the bag. It was as if the little horse were floating in a goldfish bowl, moving very slightly. The weathercock pecked through the bag with its beak, and all the water spilled out onto the grass. The foal, which was about the size of a cat, gradually awoke, as if stretching, and then got to its feet. It was entirely made of dense, vivid colours, such as had never been seen before, the mare’s colours having been entirely absorbed into that small body. The foal raced off in search of its mother. The mare lay down to suckle it. The milk ran white through her glass teats.

The boy and the weathercock returned home. They took the copper pots with them and climbed in through a balcony window. Then they poured the blood into a large earthenware jar and sealed it. The mother forgave her son, but the boy said that he wanted to be a taxidermist and so he was sent as apprentice to a master of that trade.

III

How the little boy went to Guadalajara and received the name ‘Alfanhuí’, and the things and the people to be found in his master’s house

The master taxidermist lived in Guadalajara. The boy went to Guadalajara and looked for his house. The taxidermist lived down a vaulted, windowless passageway which was lit by oil lamps hung from the walls. All along one wall of the passageway was a large workbench and on it all kinds of iron, wooden and brass tools. There were two low doors in the passageway, and the passageway itself ended in a rather small octagonal room that was lit by a green skylight in the roof.

The master gravely looked the boy up and down and said:

‘You have yellow eyes like a stone curlew’s, so I’ll name you Alfanhuí because that is the name the stone curlews call to each other. Do you know anything about colours?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What do you know?’

The boy told him what he had done with the rust from the lizards, but said nothing about the blood because the weathercock had told him to keep it a secret, since he was the first person ever to have collected it.

‘Very good,’ said the master.