Misenum reports! Urgent!

This is my favorite part of the job: working with a beautiful and exciting text. Forgetting about the whole world, just going back between the Polish and the English and reliving every sentence twice, three times, four. Perhaps no one delves into a text like a translator does, not even the author. The author has thoughts he wishes to express. The translator has just the text to live in.

Here is my most recent fascination, delight, abandonment: Jacek Bocheński's Tiberius Caesar coming up from Mondrala Press in July. It has taken the author 30 years to write and I feel like, to do it justice, I should take thirty years of my life to translate it.

p. 24:

Now, on the historic night of October 18/19 AD 31, things are just starting to happen. There is great excitement in all the special services. Relatively smallest among the female and male prostitutes on duty, somewhat larger at the fleet headquarters, which had been instructed to stand by, ready to sail from Misenum for an unknown destination. Also in the fire department, where an emergency was declared in the morning (although nothing was on fire anywhere) and around noon the firemen were given weapons for some unknown reason and told to stand by. There was a pleasant surprise in the barracks of the Praetorian Guard: there had never been a shortage of plonk there, but today the whole unit suddenly received double rations of Greek wine from Tiberius’ private cellars, even though it was not a holiday.

The praetorians employed at the observatory fared worse. Not only did they not get wine, but they had to receive signals from Misenum all day long, and in the evening, it turned out that all, without exception, were to stay at the post all night, because tonight, they would not be replaced by the second shift. No one was allowed out, not even to the latrine. During the day, Tiberius himself visited them several times and personally supervised the receipt of reports. However, even the telegraphists did not know what was actually going on. The information, broadcast during the day from Misenum with smoke signals of various colors, was not only vague and difficult to read but also encrypted with some new code, the principle of which was revealed to them only at the last moment.

p. 26

Meanwhile, the darkness has fallen, the first call sign from Misenum has flashed on the horizon: Long live Caesar Tiberius, we are moving from smoke to light, do you read us in Capri? Long live Caesar Tiberius!—the telegraphists from the observatory answer—we read you loud and clear. From now on, please use dotted light (holy smokes, they had the technology?)—a rapid series of messages to flow. So, first of all, confirmation: the criminal, imprisoned, awaits his sentence. The Senate, which had decided to imprison him in the morning, held their deliberations in the temple of Apollo, and in the afternoon met for the second time in the temple of Concordia near the prison. The base in Misenum has not yet been informed about the results of the afternoon session. However, it takes some time for each signal to be transmitted by dozens of relay stations from Rome to Capri. The diary of the day is only now being completed.

Armed fire brigades occupied the square as soon as the Senate’s morning deliberations began. Orders received by the Praetorian Guard did not raise any objections. All senators voted unanimously. No one dared to speak out in defense of the criminal. Even before the enemy of the people was led out of the temple of Apollo, the people went out into the street and manifested. Statues were toppled and there were calls for the head of the criminal. Demonstrations continue while the Senate reconvenes. Crowds flock to the temple of Concord, the curia, and the prison.

It’s now or never, Marxists! Now you have a chance. The people overthrow the statues, do you hear? If you take the initiative immediately, you will be able to achieve your revolutionary goals. Here is the situation: in the streets of Rome: rampaging plebs, in Caesar’s headquarters: a tired crew of telegraph operators who still do not understand what is going on and would rather hurry to the latrine. In moments like these—that’s when revolutions take place! All you have to do is seize the Roman Empire’s most strategic point: the communications center in Capri, where reports come in and orders go out. But do not delay, because the moment is approaching when the telegraph operators will understand what has just happened. Perhaps that moment has come already. Perhaps they had already received that unbelievable message, after which they felt as if the whole building of crushed limestone and brick had shaken under their feet, as if it was falling with a thud about them, and falling straight into the sea, and leaving behind only these ruins we see today.

But they—the telegraphists—would only feel that way for a twinkling of an eye, because the observatory is not falling apart at all, but stands in the darkness of the night, as massive and unmoving as ever. I suppose one of the telegraph operators, probably the stupidest, says: “No! What is this over in Misenum? Have they lost their minds?” And another, picking it up, adds with contentment: “Heads are gonna roll.” But the first one still answers: “What? Condemned to death? How? By whom?” And: “Do I have to take this message?” But then a third cuts in: “Wait, wait… where’s the prefect’s personal signature code?” There has been no message with the prefect’s personal code all day.

“By Jupiter! Back to work, you motherless whoresons!” the captain of the detail has just come to his senses and urges them on. “Write the message down! Record as reported from Rome: the enemy of the Roman people, Sejanus, condemned to death. Executioner will strangle him tonight. Long live Caesar Tiberius! No seal.” However, no one listens to the commander, only the most stupid one grabs the stylus and the tablet—out of habit, because the commander ordered—but he writes nothing, because just then a shout: “Misenum transmits!”

Everyone rushes to their stations, maybe there will be a correction, so they push past one another to see better, and Misenum is indeed transmitting, but the same as before: there is no correction. Only confirmation. Is it possible? Was Caesar himself behind all this? He wants to rule without his prefect and the guards? “Report this to Caesar?” the stupidest one breaks in again. “I will report it, dumbo” the commander replies.

“Whoa, whoa, what people are these?” Someone looks through the spyhole. “Who are those sentries down there? They’re not ours!” “The fire brigade!” “The fire brigade?” “They’ve surrounded the observatory!” The commander turns pale. “Boys, I…” he begins and stops.

“You all stay on duty. I’ll go and report to Caesar.” “No way!” calls the man from the spyhole. “You’re not going alone! Either we all go or else no one goes.” “Where is our guard?” “What about the cohorts in Rome?” “Will they sentence them to death, too?” “And us?” The commander, furious, turns red: “Is this a mutiny?!” “Let him go!” others shout. “Let him go, talk to the firemen!” “The door is barred from outside!” “Treason! We have no weapons!” “Wait, Misenum reports! Urgent!”

If I Knew Magical Spells

From our upcoming book, number 3 in Aleksander's Antiquities: the delightfully quirky A Meeting in Oea, or, Concerning Plato:

(Apuleius, the author of The Golden Ass, speaks:)

Pudentilla, of course, did not know everything. I didn’t have a skeleton figurine, that was true. Not did I know any really effective spells, either. However, I collected, wherever and whenever I could, formulas and prayers containing a multitude of strange words from different languages: from Egyptian and Greek, from Hebrew and Persian. I studied ancient books, I inquired among friends, and I even made contacts with certain secret brotherhoods.

But I only did it for the love of knowledge, without any thought of personal gain. And I most certainly wouldn’t hurt anyone. Yes, I would gladly have summoned ghosts but only to find out from them what life was really like on the other side, in the world of the dead: whether they lived in the underworld, or among us in the air, or in a distant land beyond the Ocean, where the sun sets, or among the mountains and plains of the moon. (Because there is no consensus on this matter either among philosophers or the common men).

I would also gladly, if I knew the right spells, transform myself—of course, only briefly—into another being. For example, into a big fish to see the depths of the sea with my own eyes.

What an extraordinary world must lie hidden under the undulating surface of the blue expanse! Even the most daring divers do not go deeper than a few dozen feet, and this only near shore. Even the biggest fishing nets do not go much deeper. And yet there, at the very bottom, may exist great cultures, huge cities, powerful states—exist and flourish—created by beings whose shapes and customs are simply unimaginable. They could be some kind of monster fish, crabs or starfish, mussels or snails. After all, the sea throws up all sorts of creatures ashore and they have fascinated me since my childhood. I collected them, walking along the shore, and also bought a few interesting specimens, paying a few coppers to the fishermen and the boys who brought them to me. But all of these specimens, however astonishingly multicolored and variously shaped, say little about the life of the true depths. For these creatures are to the life of the depths like the birds of the sky are to the life on earth: a creature dwelling on one of the celestial spheres can perhaps seize accidentally and eagle or a flacon, blown upwards by a storm or a hurricane, but it cannot see what is below, because clouds, mists, dust and fumes, obscure its vision. And how little such creatures know of the richness of forms of our own existence!

And speaking of birds: I would like to transform into a bird. I would glide freely into the clouds and then sail above the clouds. I would fly to the most distant lands, over mountains and seas, over deserts and forests. I would meet peoples about whom only rumors circulate among us. I would admire the wonders of nature. I would be free, I would conquer space! I think I’m not the only one who secretly harbors such dreams and I admit that they are not very worthy of a philosopher. But I also believe that humanity will never give them up, as long as birds fly swiftly above us and we remain down here, chained to the ground.

I met a man here, in Oea, who swore that he had the recipe for turning into a bird and that he could demonstrate it to me if I paid the expenses of the procedure. His name was Quintian. He lived in the house of a certain Crassus—that same Crassus about whom Rufinus had once said that he spent several months of each year in Alexandria and was there even now. One evening we locked ourselves in this house. When night fell, Quintian, by the light of a torch, made sacrifices of various kinds of birds to a secret divinity. (Of course, he had bought them with my money). And now, as the master of ceremonies, he recited a spell over a cauldron in which he brewed a foul-smelling liquid: bird’s blood mixed with strange ingredients. (I had put some denarii towards those ingredients, too). Of course, I wasn’t deluding myself. I foresaw that the ointment he thus fashioned would only redden the skin, and Quintian would never grow feathers. He was undoubtedly the most ordinary of fraudsters. He had found out about my interests from somewhere and wanted to extract some money from me. I gladly went along, because it was great fun.

Now, Quintian played the role of the magician with skill and panache, and I looked very serious, though I could hardly keep myself from laughing. I was reminded of a funny Greek story about a certain young man who wanted to become a bird, but due to an accidental mistaking of ointments, took the form of a donkey.

Quintian’s spell remained uncompleted. We were supposed to repeat the ceremony the following day by moonlight: only then would the ointment gain efficacy and Quintian would fly. But, luckily for him, on the morning after that first night, Crassus returned unexpectedly to Oea. Entering his h0use, he found blackened walls and fluttering bird feathers. He swore that the apartment had been ruined. From the slave in charge he learned that I had been there, too. So he began to spread the word throughout the city that I performed witchcraft in his house. I quickly dropped the matter.

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Whoa! Move over John Le Carre!

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Move over John Le Carre! What research! What psychology! What style!

Yes, what style! What deft shifts between time and reference frames! What masterful prose! As complex as the best of Le Carre, and yet not as dense. Not sure whether to recommend this, or Leaving Berlin, or The Accomplice, as the place to start. But do not start with Istanbul Passage, which by comparison is relatively weak: author just does not have the background on Turkey to give us something as rich and complex as his books set in postwar Germany. But his Germany is superb. Superb.