The Translator A Novel by Nina Schuyler

Author:Nina Schuyler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2013-06-03T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The next day, Moto is up early. He’s driving toward town to go swimming. She informs him Renzo has invited her to continue to stay in the cottage.

“Renzo loves company,” says Moto.

“And you?”

“Depends on the company.” He smiles. “Stay. As long as you like.”

“Thank you. Just a couple of days.”

And now she must impose again. Can she accompany him to town so she can retrieve her luggage from the hotel? She’s wearing the same clothes from a day ago and they’ve begun to feel like a second, oily skin.

“My god! What an imposition,” he says, mocking her. “Told you it would be fun having you around.”

“I’m glad I’m entertainment for you.”

“I’m just playing around.”

Which you always seem to be doing, she thinks.

They head out to the garage. She’s expecting a dirty clunker filled with old newspapers, crumpled receipts, empty soda cans, torn upholstery with dirty foam exposed. Instead, he drives a shiny black Mercedes, as pristine as if it had been bought yesterday.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she says, touching the shiny hood.

“I like to keep you guessing,” he says, opening the car door for her.

She climbs into the passenger seat. The car still has its smell of newness. He doesn’t get in right away. It seems something across the street has beckoned to him. He walks across the street, then comes back over to her side of the car. “You have to see the clouds. They look like huge ships sailing across the sky.” He makes her get out and look.

She sees clumps of white billowy clouds. No ships, not even a sail.

“Quixotic, that’s what you are, Moto,” she says, getting back in.

“Oh, yeah. The woman who must name everything,” he says, backing out on the gravel driveway and heading down the narrow two-lane road.

“We’ve kept ourselves busy over the centuries, naming and organizing and categorizing. Why not use them?” she replies.

“Do you ever wonder when you’re busy naming, what you might be leaving out?”

“That’s the beauty of knowing more than one language. The act of naming conjures more than one word for me, and each word hauls with it its own nuances, as well as cultural, associational, and etymological overlays. Suddenly, that one word has expanded into a large world.”

“Of words,” he says.

“Of course. What else?”

“I would think the beauty of speaking many languages is that you could talk to people. You know, travel to a foreign place and not feel foreign.” He points to a squirrel on a bare birch tree branch and smiles brightly. “He’s moving so fast, he’s making that thick branch bounce. See it?”

She watches the squirrel leap to a telephone wire. “I don’t travel much anymore. Occasionally I visit my son and his family, but that’s about it. Besides, I’ve been reduced to only one language.”

“Lucky for you it’s Japanese. If it was Armenian, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

The morning air is cold. She didn’t come prepared for this weather. She needs to buy a heavier coat and a scarf.

“You mentioned a son.

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