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KlappentextLONGLISTED FOR THE JHALAK PRIZE 'Wonderful writing.' SARAH HALL 'Dazzlingly good.' DANIELLE McLAUGHLIN 'Precise, surreal and emotionally devastating' LUCY CALDWELL 'How do you know this is all real and happening? How can you be sure you haven't already died in the earthquake and are just living in the afterlife?' In her highly anticipated English-language debut, Yan Ge explores isolation in nine iridescent, witty and wondrous tales. Both contemporary and ancient, real and surreal, the stories in Elsewhere range from China to Dublin to London and Stockholm. From a group of writers lounging on the edge of a disaster zone to a mandarin ostracised from his old court trying to avoid assassination, and from a woman who inexplicably loses her voice to a couple who meet all too fleetingly at a cinema in Dublin, these are strange and beguiling stories of dispossession, longing and the diasporic experience. 'Glorious' MIA GALLAGHER 'Gripping, stunning, worldly and otherworldly.' MADELEINE THIEN 'Equal parts shimmering wit and startling emotional depth.' JEREMY TIAN 'One of the most surprising writers I've read in recent years. . . fantastic.' MATT BELL

Yan Ge was born in Sichuan, China in 1984. She is a fiction writer in both Chinese and English who has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Mao Dun Literature Prize (Best Young Writer), and was named by People's Literature magazine as one of twenty future literature masters in China. Her work has been translated into English, French and German, among other languages. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia where she was the recipient of the UEA International Award 2018/19. She lives in Norwich. @YanGeMay

Details

Weitere ISBN/GTIN9780571373130

ProduktartE-Book

EinbandartE-Book

FormatEPUB

Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen

FormatE101

Verlag

Faber & Faber

Erscheinungsjahr2023

Erscheinungsdatum30.05.2023

AuflageMain

Seiten260 Seiten

SpracheEnglisch

Dateigrösse3072 Kbytes

Artikel-Nr.11941554

Rubriken

Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

Shooting an Elephant

when shanshan woke up, declan had already left the house. It took her a while to remember where she was. Ireland. Quietly she pronounced the word, her tongue curling back, brushing across her upper palate with a soft tingling. Ireland.´

The country was still new to her and the horse chestnut trees in Phoenix Park were rustling freshly as Shanshan walked beneath. Around her, the wild fields extended, the wind combing through the tall and lush grass. Shanshan had never seen a place so green and immense. It made her breathe deeply.

Shanshan had been coming to the park regularly since moving with Declan into a terraced cottage off the North Circular Road. At the viewing, she hadn´t particularly liked the cottage because it smelled of mould, but Declan had told the agent right away they´d take it. It couldn´t be more convenient,´ both he and the agent had agreed. The house was five minutes´ walk to the Special Criminal Court where Declan had started his new job as a court reporter.

Declan had promised her that this job would allow him plenty of holiday and spare time so he could repaint the house, show her around the city and even, when the weather permitted, drive her to the sea. However, a big case had come in as soon as Declan had started, and he had been stationed at the court ever since.

The case involved someone called Slab´ Murphy. The name sounded odd to Shanshan so she asked why the man was named Slab. I have no idea,´ Declan said, typing on his laptop. Maybe he has a flat forehead?´

A couple of days after this conversation, when Shanshan was getting milk from Londis by the quay, she glimpsed a headline on the news stand: Tight Security Outside Court as Case Against Ex-IRA Commander Slab´ Murphy Gets Under Way. Then she saw underneath the headline a picture of an old Irishman with a weathered face and red cheeks. The man wore a khaki-coloured flat cap so there was no way for Shanshan to know the shape of his forehead.

Shanshan brought the milk to the cashier before remembering the thing Declan had asked her to get. She took out her phone and opened Notes.

Can I also get this please?´ She raised her phone to the cashier so he could see the words on the screen.

Blu-Tack,´ the cashier read out. Sure.´ He walked away and soon returned with a slim, square packet.

What do you need this for?´ he asked, scanning the packet.

I don´t know,´ Shanshan said. My husband asked me to get it.´

The cashier smiled. My little brother used to love Blu-Tack,´ he said. It was his favourite thing and he played with it all the time.´

He popped the packet beside the milk. Four sixty-five please.´

While Shanshan searched for the change in her wallet, the cashier said: It´s been five years since he died. My little brother. He had autism.´

Shanshan looked up at the cashier. He was a tall man with a full, dark beard, his hair a neat crew cut. I´m sorry to hear that,´ she said, giving him the money.

Thanks.´ He punched open the cash machine and handed her the receipt. His forearm was covered in tattoos. Have a good day.´

Shanshan had been learning to enjoy her days since moving to Dublin. In this foreign city, her anonymity soothed her. Although she was struck that, here, anyone could turn to her at any moment and start a conversation about practically anything.

One day, in Phoenix Park, she complimented an old couple on their adorable beagle, and they told her in turn about their son who had lived in Shanghai for seven years and had just proposed to his Chinese girlfriend.

Another rainy day at IMMA, when she and a young man happened to stop, at the same time, in front of a painting of the Ox Mountains, she learnt about the time he got totally pissed in Sligo and fell into the river.

In the cafeteria of the Chester Beatty, as she was queuing beside the salad bar, a woman behind her asked where would be a good place to get authentic tofu. The woman was pleased that, since she had begun a vegetarian diet, her eczema had cleared up like a miracle.

At dinner, Declan said: Did you enjoy the Chester Beatty? Did you see their ukiyo-e collection?´

The radio hummed in the background. Some country music was playing.

Shanshan nodded, chewing the chicken. There were also Ming Dynasty snuff bottles.´

An oriental paradise.´ Declan reached out for the butter. Back in college, it was one of my favourite places to go.´

I took their brochure for the winter exhibitions and talks,´ Shanshan said. I´ll definitely visit again.´

The music stopped. A soft-spoken man began to speak. A man of constant sorrow, Shanshan heard the voice saying.

Sorry you´re doing everything by yourself,´ Declan said, mashing a potato with his fork. I wish I could go with you, but this case is just crazy. They are going through the ledgers and cheque books the guards found at Slab Murphy´s farm and it´s taking forever.´

I didn´t know he had a farm.´ Shanshan cut the broccoli.

Sure he does. It´s what all this fuss is about. Some tax he didn´t pay for extra herds of cattle.´ Declan poured some gravy on the potatoes. Mam wants to know if we´re going back for the October bank holiday.´

I thought we are painting the house that weekend, to get rid of the mould,´ Shanshan said, glancing across the table at her husband.

That´s right,´ Declan said. Then I´ll tell her we´ll be back for Christmas.´

I can´t believe we´re already talking about Christmas,´ Shanshan said, letting out a big yawn. The radio host´s voice was hypnotising.

Declan reached over and squeezed her hand. Go lie down,´ he said. I´ll sort out the dishes. Remember you still need plenty of rest.´

Shanshan did not tell Declan that, in fact, she had not thought of the mould for a while. The odour had either disappeared or had subsided into the ordinary along with the other mundane aspects of her life. She kept it hidden from her husband that the real reason she didn´t want to go back to Longford was that she could not bear the attentive and measured enquiries from Declan´s parents, their incessant wondering whether she had got better.

Shanshan thought she was doing well, as much as circumstances allowed. She had been dutifully taking iron supplements every day, plus three red dates. She had told the translation agencies that she would not take on any new jobs until perhaps next year. She had moved to a new country where the sky was azure and the air revitalising and clear. She had been coaching herself not to look back.

At Londis, after she paid for an Innocent smoothie, the cashier said: Can I ask you something if you don´t mind?´

Sure.´ Shanshan screwed open the bottle and took a sip. The icy drink ran down her throat.

Do you speak Chinese?´ he said.

Shanshan told herself not to frown. She thought of the homeless guy on Seán Heuston Bridge who´d always shout ni hao to her whenever she passed by. Let´s say I do.´

The cashier grinned and rolled up his short sleeve to show her a fist-sized tattoo stretching on his upper left arm. Can you check this for me? I told the artist I wanted the word for home, does it look right to you?´

Shanshan then recognised the black curlicues, å¢.

Oh no,´ she gasped slightly.

Behind her, a man queued with a full basket. Just one second,´ the cashier said to the man before asking Shanshan: Is it not right?´ He checked his biceps.

Uh,´ Shanshan said. This is not the character for home. It means grave.´

You´re kidding me.´

Shanshan glanced back at the uncomplaining customer. It should be easy to get it fixed,´ she said to the cashier quickly. You just need to move the dot in the middle to the top of the character and then it´s home. Do you want me to write it down for you?´

The cashier thought about it for a few seconds. Ah never mind,´ he said, I´ll keep it as it is. Grave is grand.´ He rolled down his sleeve and waved to the man to come over.

Later that day, Shanshan returned home after a long walk in town and slumped on the sofa in exhaustion. She stared at the slanted white ceiling and the apex that was the furthest away from her and fell asleep.

Then she had a dream, in which she was still a girl, about nine or ten. She was in a...

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Autor

Ge, Yan

Yan Ge was born in Sichuan, China in 1984. She is a fiction writer in both Chinese and English who has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Mao Dun Literature Prize (Best Young Writer), and was named by People's Literature magazine as one of twenty future literature masters in China. Her work has been translated into English, French and German, among other languages. She has an MFA in creative writing from the University of East Anglia where she was the recipient of the UEA International Award 2018/19. She lives in Norwich.@YanGeMay

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