With the conclusion of my translation of Domenico Starnone’s The House on Via Gemito, I realized that – after years of translating other people’s beautiful writing and of being deeply affected by language in a way that only a literary translator can – I must change. It’s time for me to step out of the darkness, to come out from under the rock where I hide, and speak.
I start with a story that revolves around duality and duplicity, two shades of blue.
In 2001, which now seems ages ago, I translated Almost Blue by Carlo Lucarelli for City Lights. It was my first book-length translation and every aspect of the experience confirmed my desire to devote my time and energy to the pursuit of this profession. It hasn’t always been smooth sailing – in the past 22 years I’ve held numerous other jobs, done my fair share of non-literary translations and grunt work, and even turned my back on the profession. But the desire always came back, I persisted, and here I am. When you love a book that you are translating, you become the book, and everything related to the experience gets embedded in memory. Even now, as I re-read a snippet of dialogue from one of the opening chapters, I recall the exact sensation of where I was and how I heard Lucarelli’s sensory-rich noir.
“Look Vittorio, I’m about to get my period, OK? It always happens like this. Don’t worry. It’s normal.”
“I know it’s normal, Grazia,” he said. “You’re a woman.”
“I’m a cop.”
“All right, you’re a cop.” (Lucarelli, City Lights, 18)
If you’ve never translated literature before, I would describe the process as close reading and daydreaming rolled into one. It also does to the mind what eating wasabi does to the nasal passages. And then you need to hear the characters’ voices, imagine their bodies moving through space, let their quirks get under your skin. Music, an integral part of this novel, provided a way in: both Chet Baker and the Nine Inch Nails. I remember studying maps of Bologna, researching the politics of the city, the dialect, its underground worlds, trying to get a grasp on the book’s characters, their strengths and weaknesses, and above all their tenacious ways.
“Where the hell are you, Vittorio? Your answering machine is always on...You know what I think, Vittorio? Seeing that I don’t believe in zombies or vampires or wolfmen, and seeing how the Assirelli kid and all the others have died, I think there has got to be a rational answer to all of this... As for my period, Vittorio, don’t you worry about that. I get it every month. And you know what? It helps me think.” (Lucarelli, City Lights, 72)
After a few uninterrupted months of intense work, some back and forth with editor Nancy Peters, discussions about cover art and who to contact for a blurb, the book was released, followed by reviews, including a glowing one by Marilyn Stasio in The New York Times. As far as I can recall, things went without a hitch. Everyone seemed pleased with my work and so was I. When I traveled to San Francisco some months after publication, I was honored to be invited to lunch by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
This privilege was followed by even better news: a British publisher had bought the UK rights and asked me to work with them on the English version. Having grown up in London, I was familiar with British English and was ready to switch out any number of words (police officer for cop; motorway for highway/freeway; PMT for PMS) or modify the syntax where it possibly sounded too American. I imagined the work would be pretty straightforward. And, to some degree, I was right:
“Look Vittorio, I’m about to get my period, OK? It always happens like this. Don’t worry. It’s normal.”
“I know it’s normal, Grazia,” he said. “You’re a woman.”
“I’m a police officer.”
“All right, you’re a police officer.” (Lucarelli, Harvill, 16)
At the time, Harvill was a dynamic small press run by the charismatic and savvy Christopher Maclehose. Famous for championing many great writers and eager to find and promote the next Henning Mankell, Maclehose must have noticed Lucarelli’s talent and commitment. Things were going well and I was chuffed. But then their editorial suggestions started to seem a little too heavy-handed and I was put in an awkward spot.
Her stomach ached: she felt pressure in her kidneys, along her back and into the bones of her legs, which she kept crossed under the table. Under her padded jacket and sweatshirt, under her thin cotton camisole, her breasts felt heavy and sore. Shit. Her thoughts went to the container of tampons in her jacket pocket next to the spare Beretta cartridge clip. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and clicked open the files, one by one. (City Lights, 23)
Her stomach ached: she felt pressure in her kidneys, along her back and into the bones of her legs, which she kept crossed under the table. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and clicked open the files, one by one. (Harvill, 20)
To be fair, I was at the beginning of my career and didn’t really have a solid understanding of all the complexities inherent in publishing. I’ve learned a lot since then and while the situation of translators has, to a large degree, improved in two decades, many of us still repeatedly get the short end of the stick. Despite holding up our ends of contractual agreements, we’re often the last to know the actual publication dates. We are frequently obliged to chase down payments. When we ask a publisher for better pay (even after proving our capabilities with more than one book), we are told that overhead costs are far too high, and it is suggested that we are easily replaceable. We try asking for royalties, derivatives, recognition and so forth, but rarely obtain them.
Grazia was sorry she’d changed out of her jeans, not only because of this bloated feeling, which she knew was partially her imagination, but because nobody took her for a police officer. (City Lights, 41)
Grazia was sorry she’d changed out of her jeans because nobody took her for a police officer. (Harvill, 36)
As I write, I am trying to remember the details of how things unfolded but only have a fuzzy recollection of a conversation I had with the editorial assistant. Was it by phone? They loved the translation but felt that the book would benefit from some editing. There were simply far too many references to Grazia’s menstruation, too much about the cramps, the aches and swelling and bloating. Perhaps we could tone it down a bit? I tried to accept what they were saying but I was concerned that Grazia’s physicality was being erased.
Grazia folded her arms across her chest, fuck the pain, fuck her period, fuck everybody. (City Lights, 57)
Grazia folded her arms across her chest, fuck the smart comments, fuck Sarrina, fuck everybody. (Harvill, 48)
The desire to be a good team-player and thereby possibly work with Harvill again in the future (which I did, on a second Grazia Negro book) convinced me it was worth my time and money to travel to London, where I could stay with my sister, and go through the text with them. I’m not entirely sure they really expected me to show up at the table, but I did, and we went through the manuscript. At the end of our work together, I felt honored (or rather, honoured) to be invited by Maclehose to lunch.
She tapped her foot up and down over [the photo of] his face, feeling the patina of the paper stick to her toe, watching his face disappear and then reappear, looking desperate and frightening. Suddenly Grazia felt a slow release in her belly and the dampness between her legs. Finally. She grabbed her bomber jacket by the collar and ran into the bathroom, took the tampons out of her pocket and slipped out of her pants. She scratched at the tongue of cellophane and began to unwrap one when she heard the phone ring. For a second she didn’t move, but then she dropped the tampon into the sink, wedged a towel between her legs, and ran to get the phone. (City Lights, 72-73)
She tapped her foot up and down over [the photo of] his face, feeling the patina of the paper stick to her toe, watching his face disappear and then reappear, looking desperate and frightening. Grazia felt a slow, aching release in her belly. Finally. She grabbed her bomber jacket by the collar and ran into the bathroom, took the tampons out of her pocket and slipped out of her knickers. A minute later Grazia’s mobile started to ring. She ran back to the bedroom to answer it. (Harvill, 61)
When I was recently invited to contribute an anecdote to Tupelo International Quarterly, I wasn’t sure where my tale would take me. As already mentioned, I don’t often speak about myself or my work. But there’s no denying that I was privy to a situation where a work of literature that describes an experience common to all biological women – menstruation – was being excessively modified. In that moment I was powerless: if Lucarelli accepted the suggested edits then I would, too.
She felt damp and sticky. She had to wash up, get dressed and run down to headquarters. (City Lights, 76)
She felt drained but she had to have a shower, get dressed and run down to headquarters. (Harvill, 64)
To better understand my role and write this piece, I went back and read more about Maclehose’s editorial practices, discovering – or rediscovering, because memory is indeed like a sieve – that only a couple of years following my experience, he was responsible for suppressing the violent circumstances that create the powerful Lisbeth Salander character described in Stieg Larsson’s Swedish novel, Men Who Hate Women. With Larsson deceased and publishers calling the shots, financial outcomes prevailed. In response to accusations of having infantilized the character and cleaned up the translation, Maclehose was quoted as saying: “I do think that almost every translation of a certain literary density has to be treated like an original text. If you had the author, you would make suggestions. We didn’t have the author but that shouldn’t stop you making the sentences more interesting for the reader.” (Nicholas Wroe, The Guardian, Web) In my and Grazia’s case, Lucarelli was alive; the editor made suggestions and the author accepted them. Why, twenty years on, are we even discussing this? I would like to think that the Harvill version of Almost Blue would never be published today as it was in 2003 because of our evolving understanding of womanhood, that each and every reference to Grazia’s period would be included, from tiniest wince to heaviest groan. I’d like to think we’d give her the same respect we gave the blind man and the serial killer. But I do not know this to be true.
Grazia took off her sweatshirt, sniffed it, and shrugged. She rapidly touched herself between her legs, on the rough seam of her jeans, trying to remember if she had put a tampon in that morning, as she was practically at the end of her cycle. Then she moved to the edge of the sofa and began untying the laces of her sneakers. (City Lights, 123)
Grazia took off her sweatshirt, sniffed it, and shrugged. Then she moved to the edge of the sofa and began untying the laces of her trainers. (Harvill, 106)
Yes, I could have left this hornet’s nest well enough alone. But as I move forward, it seems important to double back and reflect on it, and not just because Lucarelli has written a new book in the Grazia Negro series that I would like to translate. His readers deserve it. Readers understand. I know this for a fact because periodically they write to me about my translations. In fact, funnily enough, one such reader recently wrote to ask why a line about Grazia’s cramps at the very beginning of the book had been diminished to a one-liner. The reader pointed out that Grazia’s period is “practically a character in the book.” They were absolutely right. I looked for the reduced passage. It wasn’t only trimmed in the Harvill edition, but also in City Lights.
Grazia aveva avuto uno scatto che le aveva fatto sfiorare il mento del sostituto procuratore. Una fitta improvvisa dentro la pancia, un dolore rapido, umido e opaco, come una mano che le avesse stretto I visceri tra le dita. Le piega tra gli occhi si era approfondita in una smorfia riflessa per un momento sullo schermo del terminale. (Einaudi, 27)
Her cramps were making Grazia look uncomfortable. (Harvill, 22)
Her cramps made Grazia move suddenly. (City Lights, 26)
Here is the smoking gun. Here it is: hard proof that despite my very best literary intentions and aspirations, my travels east and west, discussions about blurbs and book covers, lunches and launches, I had also been complicit in cleaning up Grazia’s blood, in whitewashing Detective Negro.
Oonagh Stransky has translated more than twenty novels and short stories from the Italian. Her work has earned her the CWA Silver Dagger Award (Lucarelli, Almost Blue), PEN Translates Recommendation (Saviano, Beauty and the Inferno), NY Times Editor’s Choice (Starnone, The House on Via Gemito), NDU Best Gamebook (Edgar Allan Poe The Horror Gamebook), Dublin Impac longlist (Pontiggia, Born Twice; Lucarelli, Day After Day). She recently published an article on translating Starnone’s Via Gemito for Hopscotch (https://hopscotchtranslation.com/2023/05/30/translating-via-gemito/). Website: www.oonaghstransky.com