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Reading Nijinsky
By the same author
Suite pour un visage, Montréal, Éditions du Carré Saint-Louis, 1970.
Finitudes, Montréal, Éditions d’Orphée, 1972.
Yes, monsieur, Montréal, Éditions La Presse, 1973.
Un sensà ma vie, Montréal, Éditions La Presse, 1975.
J’elle, récit, Montréal, Éditions Stanké, 1979.
Une histoire gitane, Montréal, Québec/Amérique, 1982.
L’homme de Hong Kong, Montréal, Québec/Amérique, 1986.
Les miroirs d’Étlé onore, Montréal, Éditions Lacombe (finalist for the Canada Council for the Arts Governor General’s Literary Awards and for the Grand Prix littéraire du Journal de Montréal), 1989.
Chambre avec baignoire, Montréal, Québec/Amérique (Grand Prix littéraire du Journal de Montréal and Prix de la Société des écrivains canadiens), 1992; reprint: Montréal, XYZ éditeur, 2000.
Penseà mon rendez-vous, Montréal, Québec/Amérique (finalist for the Canada Council for the Arts Governor General’s Literary Awards), 1994.
Traductrice de sentiments, Montréal, XYZ éditeur, “Romanichels” collection, 1995.
Le cimetiére desélé phants, Montréal, XYZ éditeur, “Romanichels” collection, 1998.
Reading Nijinsky
a novel by Hélène Rioux
translated by
Jonathan Kaplansky
Originally published by XYZ éditeur as Traductrice de sentiments Copyright © 1995 Hélène Rioux and XYZ éditeur English translation © 2001 Jonathan Kaplansky and XYZ Publishing
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Rioux, Hélène, 1949-
[Traductrice de sentiments. English]
Reading Nijinsky
(Tidelines)
Translation of: Traductrice de sentiments ISBN 0-9688166-5-7
I. Kaplansky, Jonathan, 1960- . II. Title. III. Title: Traductrice de sentiments. English. IV. Series: Tidelines (Montréal, Quebec).
PS8585.I46T7313 2001 C843’.54 C2001-940957-5
PS9585.I46T7313 2001
PQ3919.2.R56T7313 2001
Legal Deposit: Fourth quarter 2001
National Library of Canada
Bibliothèque nationale du Québec
XYZ Publishing acknowledges the financial support our publishing program receives from the Canada Council for the Arts, the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) of the Department of Canadian Heritage, the ministère de la Culture et des Communications du Québec, and the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles.
Layout: Édiscript enr.
Cover design: Zirval Design
Cover photo: Yves Gauthier
Printed and bound in Canada
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For my children, in the hope that they never forget compassion… Hélène Rioux
For Jessica Miller, who opened a door by encouraging me to translate. Jonathan Kaplansky
Tears start to come again between me and my view of the world.
Mitia
I am a dancer.
I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes in some area an athlete of God.
Martha Graham, Blood Memory
Chapter 1
She does not think of death, because she does not want to die. I think of death, because I do not want to die.
Nijinsky, Diary
Mirabel. Dusk, the hour tinted with blue. Flashings in the fog. Crackling in the loudspeakers, unintelligible words, sepulchral voices. I look at my watch, but not impatiently. I have plenty of time.
A sudden rumbling. The plane begins to move, taxis to the end of the runway. With what seems to be inordinate effort, it takes flight, rising, flying over the dozing city, cutting through the clouds. Very calm, almost impassive, I sit near a window in the smoking section. In the seat next to me, a woman fumbles in her purse for a candy. She is wearing a burgundy suit and taupecoloured hose. I don’t like the colour burgundy. It evokes something crushed. Like raspberries trodden upon in the grass of an underbrush, a puddle of regurgitated wine, a black and blue mark, coagulated blood. Bruised taupe. Same shade as the lacquered nails of this passenger. Everything is bruised. I hear the sound of cellophane being unwrapped, out of the corner of my eye see a candy disappear into her mouth.
I am wearing blue jeans and a mohair sweater, soft and warm, with green and white stripes. My hands are empty. I don’t feel like reading a book. My eyes are tired, my head saturated. I just want to close everything tightly, my eyes, my head, my heart. In the seat pocket in front of me a woman’s magazine, so-called because of its advertisements for cosmetics, recipes, advice columns, fashion photos. I bought it at the newspaper stand in the airport. Simply turn the
