Nonscandanavian Crime
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Words Without Borders: The Online Magazine for International Literature Editorial Director Susan Harris Editor Rohan Kamicheril Book Review Editor Jonathan Blitzer Art Editor Gavin Williamson Interns Claire Potter Consulting Editors Esther Allen, Peter Constantine, Heinz Insu Fenkl, Edward Gauvin, Jason Grunebaum, Michael Heim, Ilya Kaminsky, Lawrence Venuti Website and digital products by Sonnet Media Words without Borders (ISSN ) is published monthly by Words without Borders, Inc. Questions and inquiries: [email protected]. Copyright © 2012 Words without Borders, Inc. Words without Borders, Inc. Executive Director Joshua Mandelbaum Web Developer Bud Parr Words without Borders, Inc., is a nonprofit tax-exempt corporation organized for literary and educational purposes, publicly supported by the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York State Council on the Arts, foundations, corporations, and individuals. Donations to Words without Borders are charitable contributions December 2012: (Non-Scandinavian) Crime The Killer’s Monologue Belle False Faces: An Imagined Life of the Wig Gang The Shades who Periscope Through Flowers to the Sky from “Butterfly Skin” Confession Defiled Woman from “Horses of God” from “Nanga” from “You Don’t Know: A Mafia Dictionary” New Writing from South Korea Marilyn Monroe and Lady Gaga’s Korea, and Korean Literature Beauty The Chef’s Nail “Is That So, I’m a Giraffe” My Arithmetic The Train Is Now Arriving A Nearby Roof Is That So? I’m A Girafe Book Reviews The Canvas Contributors Book Reviews Translators December 2012: (Non-Scandinavian) Crime Image: Q. Sakamaki, "A policeman stands in front of a bus set fire. ." Rio, Brazil, May 24 2007. We're wrapping up the year with a look at crime, non-Scandinavian style. You'll find no dragon tattoos or icy fjords here, only an abundance of lawlessness from the rest of the world. In two chilling monologues, Umar Timol's murderer speaks to a dead audience, and Sergey Kuznetsov's sociopath finds killing is always in season. Rubem Fonseca's contract killer works both sides, Care Santos's exasperated writer sends a pesky journalist to his final deadline, and Italian best seller Andrea Camilleri defines a Mafia vocabulary. Washington Cucurto returns to the scene of a Cortazar crime. China's Sun Yisheng's police extract an unexpected confession. French graphic superstar David B. and Herve Tanquerelle track a bank heist; Willy Uribe's fugitive cuts to the chase; Morocco's Mahi Binebine shows a suicide bomber's first murder. To skip this issue would be, well, criminal. In our feature on New Writing from Korea, writer Kim Young-ha selects and introduces three dazzling works from Korea. Sim Sangdae observes fatal beauty, Park Mingyu looks at jammed subways and hollow families, and Yun Ko-eun follows a woman whose work drives her crazy. We thank the Korea Literature Translation Institute for their generous support of this special section on new Korean writing. The Killer’s Monologue Fiction by Umar Timol Translated from French by David Ball and Nicole Ball OK, obviously you don’t believe me. You can’t help laughing. You tell me I’m not serious, I’m taking you for an idiot, a nitwit, I’m trying to put one over on you. Hey, did I ask you your opinion? Did I ask any questions? Do I know what they say about me? Sure I do. I’m an old schmuck who never did a thing in his life and still doesn’t do anything. I’m a loser; at forty I’m rotting away in a two-room flat, I have a face that would scare the hell out of a vampire, I got a belly like a hot-air balloon, I never got married, I don’t have any kids, and I’m taking it easy while everybody else is breaking their ass. So what d’you think? You think a moron can’t be a hit man, I must be talking bullshit. Me. I look like a loser, a goof-off. Maybe a guy with no principles, no morals, whatever, but a killer, come on, you're sure I’m putting you on big time. I should tell you you're right? Well, no, you're totally wrong. In fact I have the reputation of being one of the best. It’s true that over the years I did perfect my art. You could even say I’m a master. Not a great master but someone who knows what he’s doing, with experience, someone you can trust. The secret of my success, if I can put it that way, is that I’m not greedy or sadistic. I don’t do it to rake in as much dough as possible, my price is more than reasonable and I don’t get a kick out of killing. I’m not like those retards who enjoy torturing the victim before whacking him. To each his own, and it’s none of my business but let’s say that for me, I get my kicks in a different way. I’m methodical, precise, organized, and I do a good, clean job. You might even say I do it out of love. I operate at night, in silence, and I grant a calm, serene death to my target. If that’s not love what is? He or she dies in their sleep, doesn’t have time to ask questions or have any regrets, think about their insurance, think about their lover or their mistress, or think about all the useless crap that can ruin a life. I intervene like the hand of God and I send them off to eternal peace. What pushed me into this trade? Hey, you're beginning to get the jitters. What’s with you, turning red like that? You weren’t expecting that, right? When you saw me you told yourself, oh it’s that old guy, I’m gonna talk to him, I’m sure he wants to tell me about himself, I’m gonna do some listening, a little social work never does any harm and then, the boot. And what do you find out? Tell me what you’re finding out. I can’t hear you. Louder. You’re finding out I have the face of an asshole but a heart of stone. Right. Good. So you see appearances can be deceiving. Gotta watch out, see, scratch the surface a little and you might see the monster spring up before the dope. When I was twenty, something happened to me all of sudden, like a hammer that smashed my spirit to pieces. OK I’m not gonna give you a lecture in social philosophy but let’s say that society offers you two paths, submission or revolt. When I say submission I’m talking about a guy like my dad. He was an honest man but what a cruddy life, years and years working like a dog to buy a little house, pay off the loan, raise the kids, dream of a promotion that another guy with political connections stole from under his nose—you know, a whole bunch of shitty problems and he finally dies at forty-five from a heart attack. You can’t be more pathetic than that. On his deathbed, he made me promise ki mo pou reste touzours, that I’d always stay on the straight and narrow. Really, Pop, what were you thinking? You think you're a role model? You call that a life? You think I want a career in the ass-licking sector? You never got into your head that while you were grinding away, playing Mister Respectable, poor-but-nice, Mister PhD-in- Bootlicking, other people were making it big, stealing, cheating and stuffing their pockets. Poor Pop, but all right you can’t live your life over again. Did I want a better society? Hey, you crazy or what? You can’t change man, he is what he is, a wolf, a wild animal, a jackal, a hyena, whatever, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what does it mean to revolt? It means subverting the system, using it without being used by it. Do I feel remorse? Of course not. If I kill them they deserve it—people in fishy situations like that might as well have a sign on their skull with “Kill me” on it. Look, think of that old lady I eliminated recently, she didn’t deserve it? She was filthy rich but she wouldn't give anything to her kids and some of them were poor as hell. So they agreed to get rid of her. And guess who did the dirty job? Yours truly. The one and only. I admit the old asshole almost ruined my evening. I was just about to stick two bullets in her head when she woke up. And she began to beg. Non missié na pas touye moi. Mo pou donne cinq mille roupies. No sir, no kill me. Me can give five thousan roupies. And to think I was counting on giving her a beautiful death, no more pangs of greed. She started to holler, not a pretty sight. But OK I’m a professional and feelings go into the garbage can, so I shoved a rag in her mouth before I executed her. You got to know how to deal with the unexpected or you might lose control of the situation. And anything that’s out of the ordinary can wreck your reputation. I have another memory, don’t know if you're interested? But really, that was so great, they asked me to knock off a young couple, very respectable, the gentleman was a teacher and the lady an accountant, a nice house in Sodnac and a pretty bungalow under construction in Palmar but they had one bad flaw, they liked to play the races, so much that they got into debt with people who don’t kid around, if you know what I mean.