Fragma - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Mojca Kumerdej is a Slovenian writer. The author of four books of fiction, including the award-winning novel The Harvest of Chronos, Kumerdej is also an acclaimed dramaturgist and cultural critic for the Slovenian national newspaper Delo.

Rawley Grau has translated numerous works from Slovenian. In 2016, he was awarded the AATSEEL Prize for his translation of A Science Not for the Earth by the Russian poet Yevgeny Baratynsky. His translation of Mojca Kumerdej's The Harvest of Chronos appeared in 2017. He teaches translation at the University of Primorska in Koper.

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When we first started becoming closer, you had nothing. Your parents were dying, your relationship with your partner was fall- ing apart, and you were about to lose your job. My life was the exact opposite. I had more or less everything: everyone around me was healthy, I had just gotten married and had an excellent new job at the university. I’m not exactly sure why we became closer just then; maybe I felt like I needed to pay a kind of hap- piness tax, and if I didn’t, it might all go bad. You were terri- bly lonely. When so many unhappy things accumulate around a person, people tend to keep their distance; they’re afraid of being infected by misfortune, as if it was a malignant virus or dangerous bacteria. But I was certain that in a well-modulated friendship with you, nothing at all would happen to me, and I received great satisfaction from helping you. Yes, and a kind of power, too. From time to time I took you out to an inexpensive lunch, let you smoke my cigarettes, and if my work obligations took me to another city, I invited you along and so gave you a rare chance to get out of town.

But in fact, whenever you were feeling most down, to the point where you could hardly speak and just sat there motionless and withdrawn with a strained look on your face, and the few words you did say were spoken in a voice trembling with fear and dread, I always despised you, your helpless pose of a wide- eyed calf waiting to be slaughtered, and I felt no sympathy for you. There had to be some reason for what was happening to you, I thought. And I would remember how it was before we became “friends.” How men’s eyes would be glued to you, which you never particularly noticed. Because you were afraid. And instead, you did your best to give them the impression that you were smart too. But in those days, you didn’t have to do anything. They would have noticed you no matter what, whereas my charm was always connected with displays of my intelligence. And after many failed attempts, I was finally successful. In your case, how- ever, your looks and your brains only left men confused; they didn’t know which to trust, especially since you were so unsure of yourself, and in the end, when it came to the men you really wanted, you were left high and dry.

When your time of tribulation arrived, it seemed in a way fair to me. We all have our time of happiness, and you had failed to take advantage of yours. Despite every opportunity. Despite having more opportunities than the rest of us. I attended your parents’ funerals, and occasionally I invited you to our home. But whenever you phoned me at night after nine o’clock, trying to keep from going crazy with fear in your loneliness, my voice would become drier, my words slower, and I very clearly let you know that you were calling me too late in the evening. Because I was not alone; I had a husband, and the evening was our time for each other. Because I had a family.