Translator (6 page)

She's moving again. She opens her eyes and watches herself being rolled into a white room with a large white tube in the center. A young woman comes over, smiling, showing squat white teeth. She begins to talk fast, a waterfall of words cascading from her red lipstick lips, pouring over Hanne. She tries to hold on to something, to stop herself from hurtling over the fall of words, “picture,” “brain,” “scan,” “rattling,” “pounding.”

She's slid into the tube, surrounded on all sides by white and utter quiet. Here she will be buried, she thinks. In a soundless white tube, no one present, no gathering, no ceremony of solemn words. It's what she's always known: underneath everything, the thoughts, the situations, there is nothing. The entire stretch of life is a wild distraction from this nothingness. There's no white light at the end of a tunnel, no God or Gods, just a white tube. After she's placed in the tube, she imagines it will be inserted into a cannon that will shoot her into outer space, where her dead body, cocooned in the white tube, will orbit the earth forever, for why should she take up any more room on the planet? What use is she?

Suddenly she is surrounded by pounding. A perfectly designed punishment, given her keen hearing. And why must she suffer this way? There is no reason. And just as quickly, the pounding stops. She hears herself breathing. Rapidly. Panting. As soon as she thinks the torture is over, the pounding begins again. Stops. Again. Again.

“Hanne Schubert.”

The four syllables float above her, then slowly fall, like raindrops. Their texture feels familiar, both mellifluous and hard. A puff of air, a hush, a full-voiced stop. Her mind runs over and over the sounds, finding them immensely pleasurable. She's always believed words to be music and her name, she thinks now, is evidence of that.

The gray-haired doctor says the ambulance driver had had enough smarts to pick up her purse. And what luck, inside they found her driver's license and an address book. Her name is Hanne Schubert. “We've contacted your son. He'll be here later today.”

She has been named, words bonded to the subject. She has a name. She's half listening—“head trauma, left frontal lobe,” busy running the four syllables of her name through her mind, like stroking smooth silk. “Confusion, impaired motor functions, aphasia, all quite normal. Your brain is likely swollen.” Han ne Shu bert. “—watch for intracranial hemorrhaging, but so far, a scan—as a precaution,” Han ne “—inserting a small tube—a fifteen-minute procedure.” A name, a beautiful name. “—relieve the pressure by removing spinal fluid.” Her eyes are watery, she is weeping. Hanne. “As the brain finds its normal shape—faculties return, most likely.” Something about pain medication, a speech language pathologist. Her mother had had the good sense not to christen her with a name hurtful to the ear. Like her mother's name, Dorca. Hanne Schubert. Han ne. Her mother had met a Swedish woman by the name of Hanne, a woman full of poise, intelligence, charm, and something else. A quick smile? No, Dorca wouldn't care about that. From the chaotic clutter of her mind comes this memory; her name has a meaning. “Grace,” unmerited divine assistance. If there is a God, she thinks, now would be a fine time to make an appearance and bring to fruition the full meaning of her name.

For the first time, the doctor smiles. A dimple in his right cheek. In his earlier years, before he witnessed over and over the tragedy of the human body, he must have been quite handsome. He rests his hand on her shoulder. “There, there, it'll be all right, Hanne Schubert.”

Thank you. She may or may not have said that out loud. But she says it again. Thank you.

It's late when her son rushes into her room. Prior to his arrival, she remembers being rolled into a bright white room and out again. The doctor came and went, telling her they had relieved some of the pressure. “So now we're in the wait-and-see mode,” he said.

Tomas's face is white as paper, and with the lines of worry on his forehead, around his tired eyes, he's aged ten years. What is she doing to her son? He pulls up a chair and takes her hand in his. “Mom, what can I get you? What do you need?” His voice sounds like hard shoes racing over cobblestones. When was the last time she walked on cobblestones? Prague? She can't remember. You cannot rush on cobblestones.

She senses that someone else is in the room. Brigitte? She thinks she smells Brigitte's hair, or what used to be the scent of her shampoo—lavender. An image comes to her: Hanne on her knees in the bathroom, soaping Brigitte's long black hair with shampoo, Brigitte's face tilted to the ceiling so the suds didn't run into her eyes. She must have been eight or nine. She'd have spent a good hour in the tub reading, her whole body submerged, just the orb of her face and the hand holding the book exposed. Now Hanne tries to sit up to see, inching her back on the soft pillow, carefully.

She hears not a woman's voice, but a man's. The man is speaking Polish. Not just one man. Now a woman. Have they been here the entire time? The room smells of barbecue chicken.

Tomas takes up his position as guardian and inquisitor of those who dare approach. He can stay as long as she likes, he tells her. All his work has been assigned to other attorneys. Anne and the kids are coming in a couple days. He thought it might raise her spirits to see her grandchildren.

He pauses. “Do you understand?”

She nods, looking at the knife crease of his trousers, and he squeezes her limp hand.

When a nurse comes into the room, he leaps out of his chair. “Is everything being done for her?”

The nurse with puffy eyelids assures him she is receiving the best care.

He leans over Hanne, as if he's preparing to kiss her cheek. “Why is she black and blue around her eyes? Those big scoops of color.”

The nurse explains it's from her broken nose.

When she leaves, Tomas sits again and adjusts her blankets. The TV blares from the other side of the room. The room erupts in awful canned laughter. A grunt from behind the curtain, the Polish woman's voice, angry, loud. The man answers in turn, louder. Now that Tomas is here, she's listening more closely, as if she, too, has just entered the room. She realizes the Poles have been here the entire time; she just blocked them out by lumping them together with the dreadful drone of the TV. Tomas's jaw flares. “How can you stand this?” he says.

He charges out of the room.

How can she stand this?
The same way you stand anything that isn't under your dominion to change—you accept it and move on.

But does she really accept any of this? No! She feels a fresh wave of fury. The couple behind the curtain is arguing. Tomas returns stern-faced with a new nurse in tow, who isn't smiling. Tomas gathers her few belongings from the narrow closet. A hefty man appears with a gurney. A private room, her son tells her. He's paying for it, whatever it costs, he doesn't care. She wishes she could hug him and say “Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.”

“Don't cry, Mom,” he says, wiping her face with a tissue.

She's moved to the south wing and the new room is four times as large, with shiny wood floors, big windows, a view of the city, white and gold lights twinkling, as if showing off for her. The other side of the hospital, from where she just came, is an impoverished country, on the verge of anarchy and revolution. Here, there's beauty and peace and a stunning view. Even marigolds on a table by the window. And a private bathroom.

In the morning, another MRI is taken. The result reveals less swelling. “We should see improvement soon,” says the doctor.

We. As if somehow they're in this together. The doctor is up and about, and here she lies like a rotting log, speechless. She knows she's in a gloomy mood. He's doing all he can for her; she must not yield to her dark feelings.
Patience. This will change. It will have to change.
Jiro's words, she recognizes them, spoken right before his wife crashed into the garage, right before his life did, indeed, change.

She reminds herself that there has been improvement. She can now move her hands and legs. And here is her son bringing her orange juice, blueberries, and a newspaper. But the words on the front page keep moving on top of each other, then floating around, blurry, as if they are caught in a heat wave. How will she work again? More than anything she wants her old life back. She pushes the paper away. With a shaky hand she writes
Please call school. Tell them what happened.
Unless there is a minor miracle, she won't be out of here in two days to teach her classes. She thinks about having him call David, but decides against it. When she can speak again, she'll contact him.

Late afternoon, the speech pathologist arrives. She's a lardy woman who takes huge sips of air, as if she's just run up a flight of stairs. “Oh, you've got the best room in the house,” she says, pulling up a chair beside Hanne's bed, and now Hanne can see the dark mustache above her upper lip. She says she's going to get Hanne's “old brain clicking again.” “Isn't that a good idea?” she says, patting Hanne's arm.

Hanne nods. Her natural inclination is to be a good student.

Tomas steps out to get a late lunch so the two of them can get to work. They'll go through a series of little exercises, says the woman. She'll say a phrase and Hanne will finish it. “We'll play a little game together. Doesn't that sound fun?”

“The early bird—”

Hanne opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

The woman waits.

“—gets the worm.” The woman shifts in her chair. “Short but—”

Even if she could move her tongue to move, she's not sure she could utter these clichés. Dead words beating their lifeless wings.

“Sweet. A bird in the hand—is worth two in the bush.”

The woman scoots her large behind on the chair. “A friend in need—”

Hanne closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

“—is a friend indeed. Rob Peter—and pay Paul. Beggars—can't be choosers.”

She's just trying to do her job, Hanne tells herself. She picks up her pen and paper: “I'm sorry.”

The woman sighs and goes on. As the clichés pile up, she no longer waits for Hanne to respond.

“All right. Enough. We'll try again tomorrow.” Her tone is cheery, upbeat, but her eyes suggest otherwise.

Anne arrives with the girls, bringing purple lilacs that send forth a lovely scent that fills her palatial room. Hanne nods, hoping they see her appreciation, her gratitude for their visit. She tries to smile, but feels only one side of her mouth twist upward.

Sasha looks at her wide-eyed. “Mom! What's wrong with Grandma?”

Hanne is reminded of the fairy tale: And what big eyes you have. What a big nose, big ears. Anne, glowing with youthful health, says in her cool, collected voice, “Grandma had an accident. We discussed this on the plane.” A cut on her forehead, her nose broken, a jostle and bump on her brain.

Sasha tentatively comes over and strokes Hanne's arm, while Irene, happy to be out of the hold of her mother's arms, explores the room, pulling on the cord of the shades, raising them as high as they can go. A bright light fills the room, clinging to Hanne's white sheets. For a moment, Hanne can't see. Anne comes over beside Sasha, casting a great shadow, slicing the bed in half. With a hand on her daughter's head, Anne explains what happens to the brain when it hits the hard shell of the skull. She uses all the correct terminology—everything has a specific name, a name fashioned from Latin roots—even drawing a diagram on the sheet, with her finger, of the frontal lobe. Like a science experiment, thinks Hanne.

When the brain lesson is over, Sasha looks at Hanne. “Hi, Grandma.” Her voice is shy, barely audible.

“Grandma can't speak,” says Anne. “You can talk to her, though.”

She turns to her mother. “What do I say?”

Anything, thinks Hanne. Anything at all. I'd listen to you until the end of time.

The shades slam down, darkening the room.

“Tell her about the science museum we went to yesterday.”

Of course, thinks Hanne, more science. Irene runs out the door, and Anne dashes after her. As Sasha strokes the dark hairs of Hanne's arm, she talks about dinosaur bones and sharks, dead beetles and dead squid. No, she made a mistake, alive squid with their tentacles swimming in a glass case. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a brochure.
new york science
, she begins to read the fine print.

So bright, thinks Hanne. Just like Brigitte, who, at the age of two, spoke complete intelligible sentences. And without anyone's counsel, began to sound out words, as if she would not be denied access to the world of language. It was pure Brigitte, naturally gifted and gravitating toward sounds and words and sentences. Of course Hanne was delighted. Wasn't this every parent's secret dream? To give birth to a wonder? A child prodigy who might rise to unheard-of heights? That her gift was language delighted Hanne even more. Cut from the same cloth as I, thought Hanne. And something meaningful that they could share.

“Listen to her,” Hanne whispered to Hiro as Brigitte read the stop sign. Brigitte was in the back in her car seat and they were driving to Brigitte's music class, which wasn't far from their home in San Francisco on Noriega Street, a house perpetually wrapped in cold fog. “Do you hear her? She's reading. At age two.”

Brigitte kept saying “stop” as if it were a live thing that must be rolled around in her mouth to be kept alive.

“Did you read that early?” said Hanne.

“Hmm. No.” Hiro was his usual restrained self. “She's just being herself.”

“Which is remarkable. Tomas wasn't reading until age five.”

“Hanne, don't compare. They will each have their strengths and weaknesses.”

He was right, of course, but she couldn't help herself. Brigitte's language ability was just one of many differences. Unlike Tomas, who came out with an elongated head because of an agonizing labor, Brigitte was a beautiful baby. Her perfectly shaped head courtesy of a Caesarean, her symmetrical sparkling eyes, her tuft of black hair, like a dark rain cloud. Tomas liked the playpen, so he could stand up and throw blocks at the wall; he was independent and strong-willed, always wanting to do things for himself. But Brigitte would swing for hours, as long as Hanne was in view. When she could walk, Brigitte trailed Hanne around the house, up and down the stairs, to the basement and into the kitchen. When suppertime came, Hanne gave Brigitte a chore—folding the napkins or stirring the pudding—so she could stay near. If Brigitte took pleasure in Hanne's company, Hanne reciprocated. Hanne cooked and sang to her in different languages. German made Brigitte's eyes widen; French made her smile. Japanese she imitated, saying kokonoko. Nine. At night when she'd cry out, a small whimper, it was Hanne Brigitte wanted, not her father.