{"id":1773,"date":"2021-02-25T11:00:59","date_gmt":"2021-02-25T11:00:59","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.exeter.ac.uk\/translatingwomen\/?p=1773"},"modified":"2021-02-25T11:00:59","modified_gmt":"2021-02-25T11:00:59","slug":"editorial-and-extract-marie-ndiaye-self-portrait-in-green","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sites.exeter.ac.uk\/translatingwomen\/2021\/02\/25\/editorial-and-extract-marie-ndiaye-self-portrait-in-green\/","title":{"rendered":"Editorial and extract: SELF-PORTRAIT IN GREEN by Marie NDiaye"},"content":{"rendered":"


\n<\/strong>I\u2019m very excited to bring you a piece by Sanya Semakula, Assistant Editor at Influx Press, about bringing Marie NDiaye\u2019s work to the UK with the publication of Self-Portrait in Green <\/em><\/a>(translated by Jordan Stump), released TODAY by Influx Press. Sanya writes passionately and insightfully about her discovery of NDiaye and the importance of this publication, and her piece is followed by an exclusive extract from Self-Portrait in Green<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"\"Sanya Semakula is Assistant Editor at Influx Press. She is a short story writer and editor based in East London, her work can be found online at LossLit<\/em> or in print anthology Flamingo Land and Other Stories<\/em>.<\/strong><\/p>\n

My first introduction to Marie NDiaye was All My friends (<\/em>translated by Jordan Stump)<\/em>. Surprised I\u2019d never read Marie, I read up about her (she published her first novel at 17, is a winner of the Prix Goncourt, was longlisted for the Booker prize and her play Papa Doit Manger<\/em> is the sole play by a living female writer to be part of the repertoire of the Com\u00e9die fran\u00e7aise<\/a>).<\/p>\n

At the time, we were publishing Percival Everett\u2019s I am not Sidney Poitier<\/em> as a way of introducing him to a UK audience and I felt Marie was similar in that she had an impressive oeuvre but was relatively lesser known in the UK. I then came to Self-Portrait in Green<\/em> (translated by Jordan Stump), read it in one sitting and was sold.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

In this subversion of the memoir, Marie plays with notions of identity, memory, and paranoia. Set in La Roele, Paris, Marseille, and Ouagadougou, the narrator obsesses over the Garonne and the mysterious women in green she encounters who occupy the binaries between seductive\/repulsive\u00a0 real\/imagined, dead\/alive. Lynchian in its odd, atmospheric, fragmented imagery and scenes, the novella is told through short dairy entries. There isn\u2019t a traditional story arch, as it moves back and forth through genres.<\/p>\n

Self-Portrait in Green sits between The Malady of Death<\/em> (Marguerite Duras), Julia and the Bazooka<\/em> (Anna Kavan) and Their Eyes Were Watching God<\/em> (Zora Neele Hurston) in its lyrical prose, symbolical use of the river and evocation of place and fragmented structure but it is also interlaced with entries which could read as traditional memoir. The Garonne acts as a bridge between the different scenes and snippets of the women, and the novella\u2019s ambiguities (of plot and genre) make it all the more an exciting read and is why I thought it would make a great addition to the Influx Press list.<\/p>\n

The narrative voice is underlined with humour which compliments the tonal shifts as the novella moves from the macabre, through absurd horror, to eerie spectres, to family dramas in provincial France and Burkina Faso and always at the centre of the narrative is the fear of flooding and the appearance and reappearance of the mysterious women in green who can be read to mean a number of things.<\/p>\n

The novella provokes more questions than it answers, encouraging the reader to focus on something else in re-reading and its fragmentation works as a strength as you never stay long enough with the women to get to the root of their appearance.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Extract from Marie NDiaye\u2019s Self-Portrait in Green<\/em>, translated from French by Jordan Stump (Influx Press, 2021)<\/h3>\n

All the young women were in shorts, that dazzling morning. Leaving the town hall, I walked with long strides in my army-style khaki shorts, perfectly pleased to be who was in that place – the main street of a humdrum little town – and at that time, and this contentment was crowned by a vague surprise at the very existence of such a plenitude, the conceivability of such a pleasure. That\u2019s when I run\u00a0into Cristina, but as soon as I see her I\u2019m not sure it\u2019s her rather than Marie-Gabrielle or Alison. Not that her name escapes me: it\u2019s just that, among those three women, I no longer know which this one is. Deep in my pocket, my fingers squeeze and shred the little lilac leaves. This person who might be Cristina is a young woman, so she\u2019s wearing shorts, elastic and clinging, with a print of green flowers against a green background. My elation dwindles a little. It occurs to me that wariness might be called for. And yet I like the idea that soon I\u2019ll be driving once more past the house of the woman in green, and she\u2019ll be standing there, knowing I\u2019m going to stop. But Cristina\u2019s shorts are something else altogether, because I hadn\u2019t expected them, and because green isn\u2019t the usual colour for women\u2019s shorts, in the first days of spring, is it? Cristina keeps her hands behind her, pressed flat against her powerful hindquarters to display her shorts\u2019 exuberant colour as flagrantly as she can. She stands with her legs commandingly spread, blocking the entire width of the pavement. As luck would have it, she keeps her sunglasses on, and I\u2019ve forgotten what her eyes look like, or Marie-Gabrielle\u2019s, or Alison\u2019s. Her blond hair is pulled into a ponytail so severe that the skin on her temples\u00a0seems stretched to the splitting point. If this woman really is Cristina, I remember that she\u2019s my friend. Cristina has a stronger claim to that title than Marie-Gabrielle or Alison, who are, as best I can recall, nothing more than cheerful companions, in whom one would never think of confiding, because any admission of weakness, of any tiny private anxiety, would be met with frosty disapproval and nothing more. Have I ever revealed anything at all to Cristina? Certainly not, it\u2019s not in my nature. But her entire person is awash with sympathy, with understanding just waiting to be called on. I then thought, in a surge of abandon, that the woman in green beside her banana tree might have been waiting for just that: for me to unburden my heart to her.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, this has never happened to me before,\u2019 says Cristina in her hoarse, muffled voice. \u2018There are two things, and they\u2019re both different from each other… The first… you already know\u2026 I, you know, I left the kids\u2026 for two days, I think… two or three days… with my parents, yes, for a holiday… just a little holiday…at grandma and grandpa\u2019s… and… you know my kids, you know them… are they… how can I put this… are they intolerable… coarse… completely disobedient?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Not at all,\u2019 I say, taken aback.<\/p>\n

As I remember, my friend Cristina has no children. In which case, who is this woman?<\/p>\n

\u2018No one could say that… call my kids that,\u2019 she goes on. \u2018Oh, they like to run around… they\u2026 they\u2019re full of energy… like all children… children today\u2026 vigorous, healthy… . Anyway, they\u2019re out at grandma and grandpa\u2019s\u2026 at my parents, I mean, and yesterday, Sunday, I go\u2026 you understand… I go\u2026 get them… pick them up, and I drive up to the house… grandma and grandpa\u2019s house… my parents\u2019 house\u2026 and it was… oh, absolutely silent\u2026 just… just the insects cheeping\u2026 maybe… absolutely silent… and I tell myself… they\u2019re\u2026 they\u2019re all taking a nap\u2026 I don\u2019t want to bother them… so… I don\u2019t jiggle the bell… the big metal bell on the gate… so I… I climb over the hedge… a hole… a sort of hole, a low spot… in the hedge… and I climb over it, without making a sound… and I come to\u2026 the terrace… and there\u2026 I hear… my God, I hear… someone crying… a man crying and I… I look… I look through the glass door and I see… I see my father, grandpa… papa, quietly crying… in front of grandma, my mother… she\u2019s standing there, helpless… her arms hanging limp\u2026 head down… pitiful, miserable… oh, that\u2019s the first time… my father crying… first time I\u2019ve seen him… anyway… and he\u2019s talking… no, he\u2019s almost shouting… and my God, he says… he says… and he\u2019s talking about my kids, I can tell… his grandchildren… who really aren\u2019t all that… right?… About my kids on holiday with them… he says… to my mother… \u201cI can\u2019t take them anymore, I can\u2019t take them anymore\u201d… and he also… also says… \u201cI\u2019m leaving, I can\u2019t stay here, I can\u2019t stay in this house with\u00a0them here\u201d… and he\u2019s talking, you understand, about my… about my kids… and I… I left… discreetly… I climbed over the hedge the other way and then… I… I came back… later… and everything was… everything seemed… normal\u2026 just two kids on holiday at grandma and grandpa\u2019s… and I knew.. I knew… that wasn\u2019t how it was… wasn\u2019t how it really was at all!\u2019<\/p>\n

Two tears rolled out from under Cristina\u2019s (?) tinted lenses. I wasn\u2019t sure what to say. What bond was there between us? And was she not guilty of having such children? Who was she? I really couldn\u2019t think what to say. I was looking down at Cristina\u2019s thick brown sandals. I took the little bits of lilac leaves from my pocket and carefully crumbled them over her feet.<\/p>\n

\u2018The other thing,\u2019 says Cristina, \u2018maybe you\u2019ve already heard…\u2019<\/p>\n

No, I answer playfully, I never hear anything. And since, for anyone who knows me, that\u2019s an obvious, barefaced lie, I tell myself that if this woman really is my friend Cristina she\u2019ll protest, give me a little swat on the shoulder – but no, she goes on, grim-faced, standing perfectly still.<\/p>\n

\u2018A bunch of us saw it, in our yards, on the riverbank, in… Apparently there were even people who saw it in the schoolyard. The mayor… the mayor knows all about it. He saw it too. Something black, and quick. Oh, there were plenty of people who saw it.\u2019<\/p>\n

Cristina\u2019s words are coming faster now. Her voice is sharper than usual. With a little hop she pulls her legs together and keeps them that way, squeezed tight. I ask:<\/p>\n

\u2018What is it? What did it turn out to be?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You haven\u2019t seen anything?\u2019 Cristina asks.<\/p>\n

\u2018But what is it?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018You haven\u2019t seen anything?\u2019<\/p>\n

All at once she pulls off her sunglasses. And then it\u2019s clear, I don\u2019t know that face. On the opposite pavement a young woman waves in my direction. It\u2019s Cristina, wearing little pink shorts.<\/p>\n

\u2018You haven\u2019t seen anything?\u2019 the first woman says again, and her tone is at once urgent, suspicious, and frightened.<\/p>\n

I resolve not to keep this conversation up one moment longer. She vigorously wriggles her right foot, without looking at it or lowering her eyes, to shake off the shredded lilac leaves. Then she shoots me a glance full of unspoken anguish, whirls around, and hurries off, raising little clouds\u00a0of dust under her sandals.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so rattled I hardly notice Cristina crossing the street in her tiny pink shorts, with her graceful, jaunty gait. She kissed me twice on each cheek and I inhaled her flowery scent. Cristina smelled like a spring flower, a simple white flower. What she then said I\u2018m not sure I can believe myself. Still, I know I didn\u2019t imagine it. She really did say it, however unlikely it seems. In a whisper, she said to me:<\/p>\n

\u2018A bunch of us saw it, in our yards, on the riverbank, in… Apparently there were even people who saw it in the schoolyard. The mayor… the mayor knows all about it. He saw it too. Something black, and quick. Oh, there were plenty of people who saw it. What could I have answered, if not:<\/p>\n

\u2018But what is it?\u2019<\/p>\n

Cristina shrugs, vaguely spreading her arms. Her chin tenses, quivers. Cristina is usually such an impetuous woman that at first I don\u2019t grasp the depth of her distress.<\/p>\n

\u2018No one knows,\u2019 she murmurs.<\/p>\n

Cristina is very pretty. Little girls turn and stare when she walks by. I\u2019m proud to have such a charming, vivacious woman as my friend, a woman who can wear a pair of tiny pink shorts with credibility and good humor. I\u2019m grateful to her, because now I recognise her so perfectly. I put one\u00a0arm around her shoulder to reassure her, I\u2019m not sure about what. Her shoulders sag. She\u2019s completely disarmed. Seeing that, I don\u2019t press her to tell me anything more.<\/p>\n

\u2018The town\u2019s sent some workers to go search the school grounds,\u2019 Cristina continues. I\u2019m on my way there myself. I\u2019m worried.\u2019<\/p>\n

Why so worried, I ask myself, since she doesn\u2019t have any children? And consequently, I ask myself: did I recognise her as perfectly as I thought?<\/p>\n

Once the schoolyard and the little adjoining woods have been fruitlessly searched, I get back in my car and head for our house, a few kilometres from town. It\u2019s already near noon. Three hours have gone by since I set off for the school, and I never noticed. Could it be that the woman in\u00a0green shorts, that stranger I took for Cristina, who must herself have confused me with someone she knew, could that woman really have kept me there talking for two full hours? It doesn\u2019t seem likely. Also, I think about that scene she described for me, the weeping father revealing his hatred for his grandchildren, and it seems naggingly close to something I\u2019ve heard or read before. Either someone once told me about it or it comes from a novel that woman and I both happen to have read. And then she acted it out, while I listened – and I wonder: was I acting too? And did she realise I wasn\u2019t? But was she acting herself? There, then, are all the things I don\u2019t know. Now I\u2019m in a hurry to get home so I can look through my books and find the one where she might have found that story. For that matter, I could well be mistaken, and that scene is reminding me of another, almost identical, and in that case fictional, while the first is simply drawn from the false Cristina\u2019s existence. I know I can\u2019t go straight home, and that makes me a little impatient, or maybe apprehensive. It\u2019s noon, and the sun is beating down starkly on the water-willow fields. This hot day has left us all a little downhearted, I think, anticipating the summer that\u2019s still to come, exhausted in advance.<\/p>\n

I park in front of the house with the banana tree. The woman in green is gone now. A shiver of relief, almost triumph, quickly mutes my surprise and disappointment. I tell myself: my children had it exactly right, there never was a…<\/p>\n

I get out of the car all the same. I push open the gate and start down the walk. I look up towards the second-floor balcony. The sunlight is dazzling. I shade my eyes with one hand, and that\u2019s when I see her, up on the balcony. Then she straddles the railing and throws herself off. I\u2019m very aware\u00a0of my little smile. Because I\u2019m saying to myself: is all this really real?<\/p>\n

A little later I\u2019m sitting in the kitchen of that house I so often passed by, never dreaming I might one day go inside.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m very excited to bring you a piece by Sanya Semakula, Assistant Editor at Influx Press, about bringing Marie NDiaye\u2019s work to the UK with the publication of Self-Portrait in Green (translated by Jordan Stump), released TODAY by Influx Press. 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