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  ‘Deeply sad and darkly beautiful. The novel is masterly and uplifting and without any doubt it offers solace.’

  — Jury for the Düsseldorf Literature Prize

  ‘Like a landscape painter who day after day sets up their easel outside, Esther Kinsky directs her eyes onto the terrain, studies it at particular times and in everchanging weather, and seeks to understand its anatomy as well as the way it is used by people.’

  — Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung

  ‘For it is this ambivalence, this relaxed cleaving asunder, this shimmering multiplicity of meanings, every thing the narrator notes and keeps from her two recent trips to Italy and the memory of countless previous ones with her long-dead father, that gives this book its extraordinary charm.’

  — Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung

  Praise for River

  ‘A magnificent novel.’

  — The New Yorker

  ‘Esther Kinsky’s unnamed narrator observes and remembers, piling up beautiful, silt-like layers of description and memory until it becomes difficult to know which is which … This is a book to relish.’

  — Guardian

  ‘The form of River mirrors its content; its consciousness flows with a sense that, like water to the sea, it will one day lose itself. It is appropriately, seamlessly translated by Iain Galbraith.’

  — Times Literary Supplement

  GROVE

  A FIELD NOVEL

  ESTHER KINSKY

  Translated by

  CAROLINE SCHMIDT

  ‘Does it make sense to point to a clump of trees and ask “Do you understand what this clump of trees says?” In normal circumstances, no; but couldn’t one express a sense by an arrangement of trees? Couldn’t it be a code?’

  — Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Grammar

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  EPIGRAPH

  I.

  OLEVANO

  VII/MORŢI

  TERRAIN

  JOURNEY

  VILLAGE

  CEMETERY

  DYING

  CLOUDS

  HEART

  PIZZUTI

  BLACKBIRD DAYS

  MARKET

  HANDS

  PALESTRINA

  MARIA

  TRADE

  CAMPO

  CERVETERI

  VIA

  CARNEVALE

  STRADE

  WOMEN’S DAY

  BUTTERFLY

  ERMINIA

  REAPERS

  CAPRANICA

  FLYING

  ORTOLAN

  BASSA

  II.

  CHIAVENNA

  ALTIPIANO

  POSITIVE

  NIGHT

  KATZELMACHER

  EEL

  MIGRATION

  MOSAIC

  SWIMMING

  LAPIS LAZULI

  SPARROW HAWK

  MAIALE

  DISCO

  TARQUINIA

  PONTE CAVOUR

  CACCIA

  BIRDS

  RAIN

  III.

  COMMACHIO

  BASSA

  CORSO

  HERONS

  AMBER

  MARSHALLING YARD

  SALT PANS

  KINGFISHERS

  PRESEPIO

  MAN CANAL

  SPINA

  DOGS

  NEGATIVE

  HARBOUR

  LAMENTATIO

  APPENDIX

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  I

  OLEVANO

  ‘I plans un mond muàrt.

  Ma i no soj muàrt jo ch’i lu plans.’

  — Pier Paolo Pasolini

  VII/MORŢI

  In Romanian churches believers light candles in two separate places. It might be two niches in the wall, two ledges, or two metal cabinets, where the candles flicker. On the left side of the partition are the candles for the living; on the right side, the candles for the dead. If someone dies for whom in life a candle was lit in the left partition, then the burning candle is transferred to the right partition. From vii to morți.

  I have only observed the tradition of lighting candles in Romanian churches; I have never practised it myself. I have watched the candles flicker in their intended places. I have deciphered the letters above the partitions – simple niches in a wall, ledges, filigree containers made from forged iron or perforated sheet metal – and I have read them as names, designating the one space for hope, vii, and the other for memory, morți. One group of candles illuminates the future, the other the past.

  I once saw a man in a film take a candle that was flickering for a relative in the niche of the vii and move it into the niche of the morți. From what-shall-be to once-was. From the fluttering of the future to the stillness of a remembered picture. In the film this observance was moving in its simplicity and acceptance, but at the same time it inspired disgust, obedient and impersonal, a mutely followed rule.

  A few months after I saw this scene in a film, M. died. I became bereaved. Before bereavement, one might think of ‘death,’ but not yet of ‘absence.’ Absence is inconceivable, as long as there is presence. For the bereaved, the world is defined by absence. The absence of light in the space of the vii overshadows all flickering in the space of the morți.

  TERRAIN

  In Olevano Romano I’m staying for a time in a house on a hill. When approaching town on the winding road that leads up from the plain, the building is recognizable in the distance. To the left of the hill with the house is the old village, vaulting the steep slope. It is the colour of cliffs, a different shade of grey in every light and weather. To the right of the house, somewhat farther uphill, is the cemetery – angular, whitish cement-grey, surrounded by tall, slender black trees. Cypresses. Sempervirens, the everlasting tree of death; a defiant answer to the unexacting pines, projected sharply into the sky.

  I walk along the cemetery wall until the road forks. To the southeast it leads through olive groves, becomes a dirt road between a bamboo thicket and vineyards, and grazes a sparse birch grove. Three or four birch trees, scattered messengers, vagrants among olive trees, holm oaks and vines, stand at a slant on a kind of protuberance, which rises up beside the path. From this protuberance one looks to the hill with the house. The village lies once again on the left, the cemetery on the right. A small car moves through the village lanes, while someone hangs laundry on a line beneath the windows. The laundry says: vii.

  In the nineteenth century, this protuberance might have served as a good lookout point for those who came here to paint. Perhaps the painters, pulling their handkerchiefs from their jacket pockets, carelessly and unwittingly scattered birch seeds brought from their northern-coloured homelands. A birch blossom, picked in passing and long forgotten, spread rootlets here between blades of grass. The painters would have wiped the sweat from their brows and continued painting. The mountains, the village, perhaps the small columns of smoke rising above the plain as well. Where was the cemetery then? The oldest grave that I can find in the cemetery belongs to a German from Berlin, who died here in 1892. The second-oldest grave is for a man with a bold expression and a hat, of Olevano, born in 1843, died in 1912.

  Below the vagrant birch trees, a man works in his vineyard. He cuts bamboo, trims the stalks, burns off the ragged wisps, brings the lengths of the stalks into line. He’s building scaffolding out of them, complicated structures made of poles, formed around the burgeoning grapevines. He weighs down with stones the points where the interlocked stalks meet. Here the viti thrive between the vii in the distance, on the left, and the morți, somewhat nearer, on the right.

  It is winter, evening comes early. When darkness falls, the old village of Olevano lies in the yell
ow warmth of streetlights. Along the road to Bellegra, and throughout the new settlements on the northern side, stretches a labyrinth of dazzling white lamps. Above on the hillside the cemetery hovers in the glow of countless perpetually burning small lights, which glimmer before the gravestones, lined up on the ledges in front of the sepulchres. When the night is very dark, the cemetery, illuminated by luce perpetuae, hangs like an island in the night. The island of the morți above the valley of the vii.

  JOURNEY

  I arrived in Olevano in January, two months and a day after M.’s funeral. The journey was long and led through dingy winter landscapes, which clung indecisively to grey vestiges of snow. In the Bohemian Forest, freshly fallen, wet snow dripped from the trees, clouding the view through the Stifteresque underbrush to the young Vltava River, which had not even a thin border of jagged ice.

  As the landscape past the cliffs stretched into the Friulian plains, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had forgotten what it is like to encounter the light that lies beyond the Alps and understood, suddenly, the distant euphoria that my father experienced every time we descended the Alps. Non ho amato mai molto la montagna / e detesto le Alpi, said Montale, but mountains are good for this shifting of light upon arrival and departure. At the height of the turn-off to Venice, dusk fell. The darker it became, the larger, flatter, broader the plain appeared to me. The temperature dropped below zero. There were dotted lights, even small fires in the open here and there, or so it seemed to me. I stopped in Ferrara, just as M. and I had planned to do on this trip. Ferrara in winter. The garden of the Finzi-Continis in snow or freezing fog. The haze of the pianure. Italy, a country to which we had never travelled together.

  The next morning, I found the car with a bashed-in window. The backseat and everything stored there – the notebooks, books and photographs, the cases filled with pens for writing and drawing – were littered with shards of glass. The thief had taken only the two suitcases with clothing. One of them was filled with things that M. had worn in the last months. I had imagined how his cardigan would drape over a chair in the unfamiliar place, how I would work in his jumpers and sleep in his shirts.

  I filed a police report. I had to go to the Questura, an old palazzo with a heavy portal. A small policeman sitting behind a desk in a chair with a high, carved back recorded my complaint. His police cap, adorned with a magnificent gold cord, rested on a pile of papers beside him, like a forgotten prop from a sailor-themed Carnival celebration.

  On the recommendation of the lower-ranking police officer who had handed me a copy of the report, I spent hours searching for the stolen suitcases among bushes and shrubs, near the car park at the foot of the city wall. I found only a bicycle carefully covered with dried autumn leaves. When it became dark I gave up my search and made a few necessary purchases. That evening I noticed the address on the Questura papers’ letterhead: Corso Ercole I d’Este, the road leading to the garden of the Finzi-Continis.

  The next morning I left, heading towards Rome and Olevano. It was bitterly cold, the grass atop the city wall was covered in hoar frost, and large clouds formed before the mouths of the vendors assembling their stands on Piazza Travaglio. A few freezing African men loitered around the cafés. Market days promised more life and opportunity than other days of the week – some trading, help wanted, cigarettes, coffee.

  The light beyond Bologna, the view from the motorway, evoked memories of my childhood and were a strange comfort – even the petrol station convenience stores, still selling those extravagant chocolate sculptures – as if the whole world could be so innocuous and incidental, as disconnected from all pain as the bright landscape that glided past me, a moving panorama-stage which tried to fool me, in my deep fatigue that no amount of sleep would relieve, into thinking it was the only thing moving, and that I remained stationary. For a time, I believed it.

  But after exiting the motorway in Valmontone, I was in unknown territory, remote from the space of memory. As traffic crawled through the small town, I realized that this Italy was a world away from the country of my childhood experiences. Past a small hill range sprawled a plain, mountains surging at its other end. The summits in the second and third rows were capped in snow. Perhaps it was the Abruzzi already, still linked with outdated fantasies of wolves and highwaymen in my head. Disquieting terrain, like all mountains.

  On my first morning in Olevano the sun shone and a mild wind rustled the withered leaves of the palm trees crowding my view of the plain at the foot of the hill. A bell struck every quarter hour. A different, tinny one followed a minute later, as if it had required this intermission to verify the time. That afternoon the sky clouded over, the wind became cutting, and a shrill noise began abruptly in the village. It appeared so far away, the village – a peculiar illusion seen from the house on the hill, as it took mere minutes to reach the square, where a festival was taking place. At this festival Befana presented children gifts to the tune of Italo pop. Befana, the epiphanic witch; the previous evening in small supermarkets grandmothers had haggled for discounts on cheap toys in her name. They had wrenched the gifts from the sale baskets that blocked the aisles at every turn. Silver-clad Barbie dolls, neon-coloured soldiers, lightsabers for extraterrestrial use. An announcer called out, a timid choir of children’s voices repeated her, and again and again I heard the word Be-fa-na!, stressed on the first syllable, as the dialect demands.

  On the night after the day of Befana, moped drivers dinned through the lanes, and I learned that here every sound is multiplied, broken by numerous surfaces and evidently forever sent back to this inhospitable house on the hill. I lay awake, contemplating how for the next three months to force my life into a new order that would let me survive the unexpected unknown.

  VILLAGE

  In the mornings I would walk to the village via a different lane every day. Whenever I thought I knew every route, a staircase would reveal itself somewhere, or a steep corridor, an archway framing a vista. The winter was cold and wet; along the narrow corridors and stairs, moisture crackled in the old stone. Many houses stood vacant and around lunchtime the village was very quiet, almost lifeless. Not even the wind found its way into these lanes, only the sun, which usually stayed away in winter. I saw elderly villagers with scanty purchases, bracing their feet against the steepness. The people here must have healthy hearts, trained on these slopes, day after day, with or without burdens and beneath the weight of winter’s dampness. Some climbed very slowly and steadily, while others paused, drew breath – whatever breath there was to draw here, in the absence of light or any scent of life. On these winter afternoons, not once did I smell food. On brighter Sundays in the early afternoon, clattering plates and muted voices would sound from the open windows on Piazza San Rocco, but on gloomy winter weekdays the windows remained closed. There were no cats roaming about. Dogs which might have remained silent had they had a bone yapped at the occasional passers-by.

  Then one day the sun shone again. The elderly came out of their houses, sat down in the sun on Piazzale Aldo Moro and squinted in the brightness. They were still alive. They thawed like lizards. Small, tired reptiles in quilted coats trimmed with artificial fur. The shoes of the men were worn down on one side. Lipstick crumbled from the corners of the women’s mouths. After an hour in the sun they laughed and talked, their gesticulations accompanied by the rustle of polyester sleeves. During my childhood, they were young. Perhaps they were young in Rome, rogues in yellow shoes with mopeds, and young women who wanted to look like Monica Vitti, who wore large sunglasses and stood in factories by day, occasionally partaking in demonstrations, arm-in-arm.

  Above the valley whitish plumes of smoke unfurled, more buoyant than fog. After the olive trees were pruned, the branches were burned – daily smoke sacrifices in the face of a parasite infestation that threatened the harvest. Perhaps the stokers stood in the groves by their fires, shading their eyes with their hands, looking to see which columns of smoke rose in what way. All was blanketed in a mild burning sme
ll.

  CEMETERY

  In the early mornings I would walk the same route every day. Up the hillside, between olive trees, curving around the cemetery to the small birch grove. The two kiosks with cheerful-coloured greenhouse flowers and garish plastic bouquets weren’t open yet. The municipality workers, busied since my arrival with thinning out the cypresses that had grown into one another, arrived in a utility van and unpacked their tools. The roadsides were littered with debris from the felling: sprigs, cones and pinnate, scaly leaves. Beside the cemetery entrance larger tree clippings piled up, thrown together sloppily and interspersed with stray tatters of plastic bouquets: pink lily heads that refused to wilt, yellow bows. Seen from here, the house on the hill lay between the village in the background on the right, and the cemetery in the foreground on the left. A different order. The village, quiet in the blue-grey morning light. Behind the cemetery wall the men called loudly back and forth to one another.

  From the birch grove I looked onto the village and the cemetery; in the mornings not a sound from there reached this spot. I could see only white smoke past the wall and a row of ascending cypresses. Tree remains were being burned. The arborists were not yet felling. They first brought their small sacrifice. They must have stood there watching the fire. When the smoke thinned, the first saw revved.

  In the afternoon I visited the graves. Both flower kiosks were open. On the left fresh flowers were for sale: yellow chrysanthemums, pale-pink lilies, white and red carnations. The kiosk on the right offered artificial flower bouquets with or without ribbons, hearts, little angels and balloons of various sizes. The woman selling flowers at the kiosk on the right was occupied with her phone for the most part, but occasionally cast me a sullen, mistrusting glance.