: Miren Agur Meabe
: Burning Bones
: Parthian Books
: 9781913640910
: 1
: CHF 6.20
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 184
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
WINNER OF THE TRANSLATION PRIZE LABORAL KUTXA - ETXEPARE 2023 'Miren Agur Meabe's poetic language shades and heightens the pulse of her writing, [adding] sensuality to the wound she writes of. Her way of looking elevates her raw, sincere voice to higher ground...' - Harkaitz Cano 'Miren Agur Meabe writes with about quiet worlds with tenderness and attention to detail, in a very sensual, almost synaesthetic way.' - Anna Blasiak, The Spanish Riveter 'a riveting and immersive read.' - Rhianon Holley, Buzz In a series of short poetic narratives Burning Bones finds the writer on a remarkable journey of imagination, discovery and emotion. We watch the gardener gather kindling to prepare a bonfire. 'So many branches,' I tell Gwen. 'They look like a pile of bones... I have a feeling that's what I'm doing too, carrying a bundle of bones from place to place. And I don't just mean the bones in my body.' From a flooded river stranding a dolphin on a sandbank to a sailor afraid to venture onto land while a first kiss is cut tragically short Meabe plays with the expectations and form of stories while offering a rhapsody of reflection and reinvention. Expertly translated into English by Amaia Gabantxo - arguably the most prestigious contemporary Basque to English translator - Burning Bones is a companion piece to Miren Agur Meabe's A Glass Eye, a collection of short stories that complement the universe of Meabe's novel about absence as an engine for creation, about what we make out of the things we lose - her eye, in the author's case, or love, or the innocence of youth.

Miren Agur Meabe writes books for adults and children. In the course of her career she has received the Critics' Prize twice for her poetry collections, and the Euskadi Prize for YA literature on three occasions. Her novel Kristalezko begi bat (A Glass Eye, Parthian, 2018) and the short story collection Hezurren erratura (Burning Bones, Parthian, 2022) have been warmly received by readers and critics alike. A Glass Eye has been translated into several languages and received multiple awards. In 2020, she published her fifth poetry collection, Nola gorde errautsa kolkoan (Holding Ashes Close to the Heart) - which forms a triptych with A Glass Eye and Burning Bones. It won the 2021 Spanish National Poetry Award. She's a member of the Basque Academy of Letters.

Miramar

Rats have been running riot here all winter. I start to itch as soon as I see the destruction: the broken ceramic dishes on the floor and the serviettes turned to confetti. Their tiny turds everywhere, little seeds of blood.

‘Maybe because they ate salt?’ my son wonders. ‘The salt dish is empty.’

The transistor radio’s cable, the matches, the scented candles we set on the table outside during long summer evenings, the aluminium paper; they tore through everything they found. A woven basket too, upturned on the floor. I give it a little kick, fearful that one of those beasts may be hiding in it and run towards my ankles.

‘They’re not around now, Ama, they come out at night. I heard them make a hell of a racket some time ago, on the ceiling… I’ve no idea how they got in. It’s almost as if rats shape-shift their bodies into smoke when they smell food.’

‘They probably found some leftovers from the last time you ate here with your friends. You don’t even sweep up after you use the place,’ I snap at my son.

‘We should get a cat,’ he replies, pretending not to have heard me.

It smells of damp and dust, of enclosed air. Multiple spider webs, thick as shoelaces, hang from the beams. Fragments and dust shed by the bricks inside the chimney have covered everything in a thin, copperish film.

‘We shouldn’t keep the place locked up like this. If we can’t look after it between us, I’m going to have to sell it.’ Look after it between us. Who is thisus. My son and I. I go on, braiding my rope of complaints.

‘Expenses and more expenses, that’s all this place is: taxes, electricity, water bills, and the maintenance it requires every year to keep it half-decent. Look at these walls, they’re all chipped again.’

It’s the saltpetre that causes them to bubble and crack; back in the day, masons used to mix concrete with beach sand.

‘Careful on the steps. One of them is broken and the nails are sticking out.’

Coming here felt different before. Every time I come now, I have to run a rake through the place. I never write here anymore. Writing in the garden – that’s a thing of the past.

‘Ama, don’t come into the bathroom.’

‘What now?’

He steps aside to show me the toilet bowl. A huge rat has drowned in the hole.

‘It must have been thirsty,’ says my son, laughing. ‘Get me something to take it out with; a piece of wood, or, better still, the shovel from the shed.’

‘No, step away. I’ll do it.’

I put rubber gloves on and grab the rat by its tail, but it slips out of my grasp and falls on the floor. It makes a sound like an oily balloon when it hits the tiles. I grab hold of it again, from the neck this time, as if it were a kitten. I throw it on top of the pile of stubble that I’ve been meaning to burn for months. My eyes and nose streaming, I retch.

My son leaves, taking the path that leads on to the street.

I stay there, looking at what used to be a vegetable garden, patches o