The Extinction of Irena Rey by Jennifer Croft

Author:Jennifer Croft
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, FIC025000, FIC030000
Publisher: Scribe Publications Pty Ltd
Published: 2024-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Then the hour was over, and we seated ourselves for lunch—all of us but Petra, who (I might have been the last to notice) remained some distance from our table, in the embrace of a monstera, her hands balled into fists.

Ladies, gentlemen,” said Petra, as if addressing some symposium of strangers, and not the only other people in the world who truly understood the most important aspect of her life, “I’m going back to Belgrade.”

Even though we must have all felt something like this was coming from one of us, the table was momentarily submerged in an anguished wavelet of surprise.

Then Renata said, “No.”

Inspired by her concision, I pushed back my chair and stood. I had conviction and bliss on my side; I would speak, I thought, and I would make Petra stay.

“If lichens can create life from surfaces without any life on them,” I said, smiling at Freddie, “then surely we can translate her book without her here.”

“Of course we can,” said Ostap. He gave Renata a nervous glance. “In fact, this is the way translation is normally done.”

“To be completely honest,” said Schulz, “in a way, it has even come as a relief. Without Irena here, we can focus on the text.”

Alexis had changed into yoga pants and a sports bra, and it was all I could do not to glance at her midriff as she chirped, “Plus we’re more connected to the forest.”

“No,” Renata repeated. “None of this can happen. We need Irena. We need to find Irena, and in order to find her, we need to stay here. To wait.”

Chloe and Ostap and Freddie and Schulz started and stopped talking at the same time. I took the opportunity. “In the end,” I said, “what we do is mycelial. What we do as translators is stitch the world into a united and communicating whole.”

“Excuse me,” said Petra, raising her trigger finger, “but this is personal and has nothing to do with Our Author, Grey Eminence, or any of you. I will leave tomorrow, and from then on, I will be happy to remain in touch as we all continue to work on our translations, assuming continuing is indeed what we decide to do.”

No one knew how to respond to this. I looked up at the garlands of ribs and the skulls dangling over our heads. I looked at Pavel, who was shoving forkful after forkful arugula into his already at-capacity mouth.

I think none of us believed Petra, not really. What could “personal” possibly mean? It was a mind-boggling word in this context—in the context of our single-mindedness and our devotion.

“But Pavel didn’t get to marry,” said Renata.

Pavel looked at her and tried to swallow. But then I looked at Renata and felt sorry; she was in despair, and like all of us, she was doing her best not to fall to pieces. I looked at Chloe’s chipped pink fingernails, and I thought this had to be the very lowest moment of our existence together as translators, our Irena nadir.

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