number of bytes or such, and as I understand nothing about computers, I translated them into typewritten pages, seventy or so) and if I didn’t have one whether I would consider writing one. They proposed a set amount in payment of author’s rights. It seemed a bit low to me, so I hesitated and we agreed to discuss the matter further in July in Paris, where I would be traveling a month from then.
The idea was starting to grab me, so I gave it some thought. I remembered that when I was putting
Showdown
together I’d begun to think about an adventure (or misadventure) for the Arab Fadul, but I hadn’t gotten around to writing it down. I didn’t think it was needed for the structure of the novel. It was an amusing idea. I thought about it again and about bringing it to fruition.
I waited in Paris but the Italians never appeared, and I said to Zélia: “The mafiosi have disappeared. So much the better; now I can keep on working in peace on
Home Is the Sailor
.” I’d begun writing
Sailor
in Bahia. It so happened, however, that those guys contacted me again, came to Paris, accepted my price, and we signed a contract. I postponed writing the anti-memoirs and invented the novella you are about to read. In November of that year in Rome I turned in the manuscript, got my check, and began squandering the pittance.
At the same time I began selling the story in languages that had not been included in my contract with the agency. I signed agreements for translations into French, German, Russian, and Turkish. In September 1992 the French edition came out (Editions Stock) in a magnificent translation by Jean Orecchioni. The little book about the Turks was well received by the French critics and sold—and is still selling—quite well. It will appear in a pocket edition beginning next year. I must add that the Turkish edition, published early in 1993, is beautiful. As for the translation: I consider it perfect. Perfect translations are those in languages the author can’t read.
The editions of the three stories in Italian, Portuguese, English, and Spanish in one volume should have been published in April 1992, but they weren’t. They didn’t become part of the commemorations of the fifth centennial, which had evidently degenerated, as anticipated, into a harsh and basic polemic: Epic or genocide? Discovery or conquest? Time passed, and I received no further news from the agency.
I didn’t have any more news, but I did have my suspicions upon reading in the newspapers about “Operation Clean Hands,” which had brought out into the open and put ontrial the corruption of Italian political life—corruption that could be second only to the Brazilian variety—and included in its investigations a most important government establishment, whose directors had been brought to trial along with its president, who killed himself in jail. I was left scratching my head. I showed the report to Zélia: “I don’t think those editions they planned on will ever reach the hands of passengers on the airlines; the project’s gone down the drain.”
Exactly. The agency that had drawn up the contract wrote to me immediately and told me the project had been abandoned, and they gave back to me the rights in the four languages in which they’d had the option. I phoned Carlos Fuentes to pass along the news, and he said he’d already sold the rights for publication in Spanish to a publisher in Madrid. I notified Sérgio Machado in Brazil: “The Turks have been set free. You can publish the book whenever you want.”
If the reader of this little novella perceives a certain resemblance between the Arab Jamil Bichara, a character in the story, and Fadul Abdala, a character in a previous novel; between Raduan Murad and Fuad Karam; between the village of Itaguassu and the place called Tocaia Grande, he mustn’t think it a simple coincidence. It’s just more proof of the fact that I’m a limited and repetitive novelist, according to the line of
The idea was starting to grab me, so I gave it some thought. I remembered that when I was putting
Showdown
together I’d begun to think about an adventure (or misadventure) for the Arab Fadul, but I hadn’t gotten around to writing it down. I didn’t think it was needed for the structure of the novel. It was an amusing idea. I thought about it again and about bringing it to fruition.
I waited in Paris but the Italians never appeared, and I said to Zélia: “The mafiosi have disappeared. So much the better; now I can keep on working in peace on
Home Is the Sailor
.” I’d begun writing
Sailor
in Bahia. It so happened, however, that those guys contacted me again, came to Paris, accepted my price, and we signed a contract. I postponed writing the anti-memoirs and invented the novella you are about to read. In November of that year in Rome I turned in the manuscript, got my check, and began squandering the pittance.
At the same time I began selling the story in languages that had not been included in my contract with the agency. I signed agreements for translations into French, German, Russian, and Turkish. In September 1992 the French edition came out (Editions Stock) in a magnificent translation by Jean Orecchioni. The little book about the Turks was well received by the French critics and sold—and is still selling—quite well. It will appear in a pocket edition beginning next year. I must add that the Turkish edition, published early in 1993, is beautiful. As for the translation: I consider it perfect. Perfect translations are those in languages the author can’t read.
The editions of the three stories in Italian, Portuguese, English, and Spanish in one volume should have been published in April 1992, but they weren’t. They didn’t become part of the commemorations of the fifth centennial, which had evidently degenerated, as anticipated, into a harsh and basic polemic: Epic or genocide? Discovery or conquest? Time passed, and I received no further news from the agency.
I didn’t have any more news, but I did have my suspicions upon reading in the newspapers about “Operation Clean Hands,” which had brought out into the open and put ontrial the corruption of Italian political life—corruption that could be second only to the Brazilian variety—and included in its investigations a most important government establishment, whose directors had been brought to trial along with its president, who killed himself in jail. I was left scratching my head. I showed the report to Zélia: “I don’t think those editions they planned on will ever reach the hands of passengers on the airlines; the project’s gone down the drain.”
Exactly. The agency that had drawn up the contract wrote to me immediately and told me the project had been abandoned, and they gave back to me the rights in the four languages in which they’d had the option. I phoned Carlos Fuentes to pass along the news, and he said he’d already sold the rights for publication in Spanish to a publisher in Madrid. I notified Sérgio Machado in Brazil: “The Turks have been set free. You can publish the book whenever you want.”
If the reader of this little novella perceives a certain resemblance between the Arab Jamil Bichara, a character in the story, and Fadul Abdala, a character in a previous novel; between Raduan Murad and Fuad Karam; between the village of Itaguassu and the place called Tocaia Grande, he mustn’t think it a simple coincidence. It’s just more proof of the fact that I’m a limited and repetitive novelist, according to the line of
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