During fall semester 2024, students in third-year Russian (RUSSN 301: Conversation and Composition) translated excerpts from Oksana Vasyakina’s novel, Wound (2021).
Although the focus of our classroom workshops was language and translation, we also discussed some of the major themes in the novel, which follows the journey of a lesbian poet across Russia and through memory as she travels to inter her mother’s ashes in her Siberian hometown. In the process, the narrator meditates on themes of queerness, death, and love. She also gains a new understanding of her relationship with her mother, her sexuality, her identity as an artist, and her country.
Elina Alter’s full English-language translation of Wound is available from Catapult Books.
1 (pp. 17-19)
Lyubov Mikhailovna said mama’s breathing had been bad, heavy. She found out about it from the priest. This kind of breathing is common among people close to death. The light was good, there was no wind. The light was golden, just like in August.
Lyubov Mikhailovna’s arm rested on the back of the couch, swollen and grayish. Strange, I thought, looking at this arm, as if without the priest’s sanctioning, it’s impossible to understand that a person is dying, even if they are obviously dying.
Lyubov Mikhailovna had a calm face. She believed in God and her cancer stopped. She probably thinks her cancer stopped because she believes in God. On her face is an air of superiority. It’s as if, on her knees, she has the cup of life, which she won from my mother.
Andrey said that tomorrow at ten in the morning Mikhail Sergeevich would call me. Andrey had already given him the gas money so he could take me to collect the ashes. I would have managed myself, but here, helping out was important. Helping out and concern. The light was really good, it was warm. And the noodle soup turned out well. Everything turned out well like I promised. It’s the thought that counts.
The husband of mom’s old neighbor, already leaving the funeral, said that Andrey shouldn’t be sad. He said that he should call him if he wants to go fishing. Andrey said that he would call. But I know that he won’t call, here again, helping out and concern.
Lyubov Mikhailovna told me I should accept her condolences. I did. She gave Mama holy water for a month: three tablespoons with prayer in the morning and three tablespoons with prayer in the evening. She told me that after the visit from the priest, mama perked up and was back on her feet. Lyubov Mikhailovna said Mama laughed and made a soup.
Mama said that the priest put some doodad on her head and asked her to repent while he read the prayer himself. She didn’t dare admit to Lyubov Mikhailovna that Orthodox Christianity doesn’t help much when you’re sick. Especially when you don’t believe in God.
As a child, I was told it is good for it to rain when a person is buried. On the one hand, rain when you’re setting out is a good omen — and on the other hand, it’s nature crying. Nature participates, and it sympathizes. When my father was buried, it was raining lightly. But there is no rain in February. Instead of rain, there is good light. In that light, everything is rosy and whole, like an apple.
Everyone just sat on the sofa where Mama had lain dying. And then everyone left all at once. Andrey and I cleared the table, and washed the dishes. Andrey said that one shouldn’t throw anything away from the funeral table and should only eat with spoons. He said that he would wash everything. He turned on the T.V. in the kitchen and began to wash the dishes. I brought him the empty plates. It was a long way to evening.
Andrey asked if the crematorium works at night. I answered that I didn’t know. I knew that our turn was at 4:30 which meant her body was already burned. Andrey said that it was revolting — burning living people. I said nothing, but just thought that she wasn’t alive, she was dead. I sat down on the sofa and watched T.V., then after a little while laid down and fell asleep with a feeling of bitter relief. That night, I dreamed of darkness.