Strega E-Book

Johanne Lykke Holm

• Herausgeber: Lolli Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 216

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Powerfully inventive and atmospheric, Strega is a modern gothic story of nine young women on the cusp of inheriting society's submission to violence, and the age-long myths that uphold it. With little boxes of liquorice, hairbands, and notebooks in her bag, Rafa arrives at the remote Alpine town of Strega to work at the grand Olympic Hotel. There, she and eight other girls receive the stiff uniforms of seasonal workers and are taught to iron, cook, and make the beds by austere matrons. In spare moments between tasks, the girls start to enjoy each other's company as they pick herbs in the garden, read in the library, and take in the scenery. But when the hotel suddenly fills with people for a raucous party, one of the girls disappears. What follows are deeper revelations about the myths young women are told, what they are raised to expect from the world, the violence they are made to endure, and, ultimately, the question of whether a gentler, more beautiful life is possible. A monument to long-dead maids and their shrouded knowledge, Johanne Lykke Holm's luminescent and jagged prose, delivered in Saskia Vogel's incisive translation, resonates like a spell that keeps exerting its powers long after reading.

Leseprobe

STREGA

Praise for Strega

‘A work of mythic reinvention about the power of girls coming of age in a world hellbent on containing their passions and imaginations… Strega left me breathless, angry, and then thrilled by the dare it leaves in the reader’s lap.’– Lidia Yuknavitch, author of Thrust and The Chronology of Water

‘Utterly immersive, Strega is a modern-day fairy tale in the primeval sense, a visceral, hallucinatory allegory of coming into womanhood. It’s at once timeless and completely new, with surprising and evocative prose – a glittering translation of a masterful work.’– Julia Fine, author of The Upstairs House and What Should Be Wild

‘If Fleur Jaeggy and Shirley Jackson had ever spent the night together in The Shining Hotel, their love child might have been Strega. As it was, this Strega came into the world through a different yet equally miraculous union: that of a writer and a translator of extraordinary talent. Its hypnotic, off-kilter prose dances the reader into a state of gloried frenzy, pressing the sometimes-nightmarish buttons of imagined memory as it probes the essence of being young, searching, and exploited.’– Polly Barton, translator and author of Fifty Sounds

‘Strega is a charm: its vivid details work eerie magic. In sumptuous, prickly prose, Johanne Lykke Holm unsettles and astonishes her reader.’– Isobel Wohl, author of Cold New Climate

‘Strega is the kind of book Lolita would write if she wrote like Thomas Mann. This book is sprawling with heart-shaped mirrors in wet grass, peach-coloured bedding, neon lights, knives. All the paraphernalia of patriarchal violence. Johanne Lykke Holm is from the school of Fleur Jaeggy and Frank Wedekind, she uses the young women as her stage and transports you to another world, where everything is scenography. As uncompromising and brilliant as she is disturbing, I am forever devoted to the cult of her.’– Olga Ravn, author of The Employees

‘The prose is a treasure to explore. No one can fail to see its beauty. Strega is a shield of 180 pages. And behind it? A slow-acting poison. A spell, a rite of passage, a black diamond.’– Göteborgs-Posten

‘“I knew that a woman’s life can be turned into a crime scene at any moment”, explains the protagonist early on in the book, giving the reader an indication of the violence to come… The female world that Lykke Holm depicts is remarkable and enchanting… When the maids’ hair spill over the sheets “like spilled ink” I stand defeated, by great beauty and grief.’– Dagens Nyheter

‘A beautiful, increasingly suspenseful brew with great semantic variety and European erudition… Read it. Surrender. And adapt it to film!’– Expressen

For Siri A.W.

I studied my reflection in the mirror. I recognised the image of a young but fallen woman. I leaned forwards and pressed my mouth to it. Fog spread across the glass like condensation in a room where someone has been sleeping deeply, like the dead. Behind me I saw the room reflected. On the bed lay hairpins, sleeping pills, and cotton knickers. The sheets were stained with milk and blood. I thought: If someone took a picture of this bed, any decent person would think it was a reproduction of a young girl’s murder or an especially brutal kidnapping. I knew a woman’s life could at any point be turned into a crime scene. I had yet to understand that I was already living inside the crime scene, that the crime scene was not the bed but the body, that the crime had already taken place.

The bedroom window was open. The air smelled like water, bread, and citrus. I walked over and leaned out. Though the day had only just begun, the streets were steaming with late-summer rain, heat. At the intersection below, the traffic was already dense. Beyond the city, the mountains stood sharp against the sky, which was rumbling. On the horizon lay the large, glittering sea, cargo ships surging and sinking with the waves. The sounds carried far and freely, metallic and dulled. I heard a hammer strike concrete. I heard aeroplanes in the sky. Down on the square, a ball rolled across the flagstones. I saw a boy in a school uniform set fire to a piece of paper. I saw a girl dragging her dolly behind her. Above me hung the shining sun. I reached for the plane tree growing outside my window. I caught hold of a shoot and stuck it in my mouth. It tasted sweet and rough, like sunbaked resin.

I walked naked through the flat. The living room was all in beige and yellow. A thick dust rose from the wall-to-wall carpet. In the bathroom, the tap was dripping in the dark. I reached for the switch and the strip light crackled overhead. I twisted open the taps and filled the tub, poured in baby oil and bath salts I’d bought with my own money. I lowered myself into the water and leaned my head back. I reached for the hotel brochure, which I kept in the gap between the bathtub and the brown-tiled wall. Each spread showed a slice of life at the hotel. There were high-contrast photos in crisp jewel tones. Girls in pearl-white aprons, girls eating ruby-red apples straight from the tree, girls setting out coral-pink charcuterie on an excursion to a jade-green lake. I had already examined each spread many times. I knew there were tennis courts, a park, a ballroom. Mountains encircling a swimming pool, endless recreational options. I let the brochure sink through the bathwater and come to rest on my stomach, like a shroud. I reached for the shampoo, washed my hair until it squeaked. I scrubbed my cheeks and knees with a brush made of horsehair. I rubbed a small pale blue soap between my hands, and it lathered.

I climbed out of the bath and let the water drip from my body, wound my hair in a terrycloth towel, and walked through the flat, where the air was vibrating. I took out my traveling clothes. A pair of jeans and a shirt I’d stolen. Trainers made of cotton. I put on jewellery and ran my fingers through my hair, let it rest heavy against my back. I dabbed perfume on the dip of my neck and wrists. I applied lipstick. I sat down at my desk and wrote a farewell note to my parents. Finding the words was easy, because I had repeated them to myself all summer. I pressed my mouth to the paper.

On the windowsill in front of me, books were arranged in symmetrical piles, alongside incense and matches. Opposite, on the other side of the street, was an open window. I saw a child dressing another child. I saw a woman bending over a bed. I saw a man reaching out his hand and grabbing hold. Everything was as it usually was, for now. I reached for the ashtray and lit a cigarette, opened the window, and leaned out. The tar burned in my lungs and spread into my fingertips. If you can’t give your body the good stuff, give it the bad stuff. It started raining, the heat eased. I thought for a moment that my hands were giving off the scent of eucalyptus. I stubbed my cigarette out on the windowpane, let the rain wash over my hands for a while.

I folded up the note and walked through the living-room for the third time. I always give a thought to when I do something for the third time. I’d advise all people to do the same. It’s important to be suspicious of that sort of repetition. I pinned the note to the noticeboard in the hall and turned in towards the flat, nodded to my parents’ wedding picture, which was hanging by the hall mirror, and picked up my suitcase, which was sitting by the door. I walked down the stairs and the stairs echoed. I took in the hallway’s smell of infants, cigarette smoke, boiled potatoes. I had with me a piece of bread and a pyramid-shaped carton of orange juice which I’d put in the freezer overnight. I had with me toiletries and hairbands and notebooks. I had with me a winter coat that I’d inherited. I had with me a silver-inlaid moonstone, which I took to be holy. Once on the street, I turned around and lifted my gaze. For a moment, I thought that my mother was waving from the kitchen window, like something out of a melodrama. What mother waves to her child from a window. I bit my tongue until it bled. Who are you when you leave your parental home? A young and lonely person en route to life.

The street was slick and smelled of rain, heat. I took it all in. Storing images as though in the face of death. I was a murder victim opening her eyes wide, as though to suck life in. There was the milk bar, where I had worked for many hours, letting my hands stack glasses and cups, wetting my lips with lukewarm milk from the cans. There was the swimming hall, where I had swum my lengths. The fountain and the department store. The fruit shop glowing in every colour. Ample piles of grapefruit and grapes. Water in plastic drums. The smell of dried figs and wet sand that washed over me as I neared the sea.

The station was deserted. People travelled later in the day or not at all. I held my ticket in my hand and the paper disintegrated against my skin. I got on the train. Outside the window, the mountains rose higher and higher and the greenery paled. I travelled through depopulated villages. I read, I wrote postcards, passing orchards, forests, watercourses. A young boy came by with a coffee cart. Chocolate and biscuits were on offer. I reached for a tin of mints, but changed my mind. The carriage slowly emptied of people. With every station, someone disappeared. Women in black waved at children in black. A soldier was waving a pennant. People were embracing each other everywhere. In the end, I was there alone.

I rested my forehead against the window and opened my eyes wide. Suddenly everything out there seemed artificial. The mountains appeared to be lit up from below by a bright spotlight. At the foot of the mountain, the trees stood in perfect rows, as though dipped in wax and coated in glitter. On the rhododendrons hung dewdrops of silicone. A roaring waterfall, which seemed frozen in time. I looked at the mountains and the mountains looked back. Without a doubt an evil place in costume. Above the door, a neon sign started blinking – TERMINUS in fluorescent green. I took the pocket mirror from my summer jacket’s inside pocket. My face was blank. My mouth was still bright red, but I touched up my lipstick anyway. I put the mirror away and gathered my things.

I stood up and got off the train. Here too the station was deserted. In the transit hall hung a clock. I noticed it was an hour off. The clock struck and a mechanical bird emerged from a hatch, as though guided by an invisible hand. Under the clock was a pool of water, which was expanding. The village was called Strega and it was in the mountains. Later I learned that Strega was a chamber of horrors, where everything had frozen into a beastly shape. I learned that Strega was deep forests bathed in red light. Strega was girls plaiting each other’s hair just so. Girls who carried large stones through the mountains. Girls who bent their necks and stood that way. Strega was a lake and the foliage enclosing it. Strega was a night-light illuminating what was ugliest in the world. Strega was a murdered woman and her belongings. Her suitcase, her hair, her little boxes of liquorice and chocolate.

I walked through the streets. There were no people. There was a post office and a bar, but no vegetables or bread, no living things. On a stone balustrade was a plastic bowl. Steam rose from it, like the steam in a laboratory. I walked on, seeing eyes everywhere. An unsightly child was sitting on some steps and making faces. Drapes welled out of an open window, like ectoplasm. I walked through Strega and arrived at the water, which gave off a familiar smell. Something mouldering and somehow tepid, like the night air in a church. On the dock, a semaphore was beating in the wind. From a crevice in the mountains, a ferry came gliding. It was a polished steel vessel with the name Skipper hand-lettered in yellow on its side.

I turned my face to the sky. The air tasted like iron, and I licked my lips. Everything was iridescent pink, except for the lake, which was black and gorgeous. The range gleamed and gleamed and the sky was clear. I sat on the ground and lit a cigarette. A young mother and her child were standing nearby. The boy lifted his hand to his face, as though to bat away an insect. The mother grabbed hold of his wrist. I took out the juice carton and drank it down in a single gulp. Then I ate of the stale bread. I tried to find the horizon, but it was hidden behind the mountains. I grew up by the sea, where everything was open planes. I took out my notebook and wrote down my home address, watched my name glow strangely on the page. I had always imagined the future otherwise. I was to work the perfume counter at the department store. I was to save my money and keep it in the bank under my own name. I was to move into a flat where other women were also living, free souls with jobs and love lives. But I did as they had asked of me. I liked being an obedient daughter. It felt like being held by a beautiful patent leather collar.

I let the notebook drop to my lap. The smell of the water was numbing me. I shut my eyes. For a moment the sound of the waves was crystal clear, as though they had washed into my head. Behind my eyelids something surfaced, a sequence from a film I’d seen. A taxi driving through a storm towards a red building. Cobblestones glinting in the rain. In a large hall, patterned textiles hung from the ceiling. A girl walked across the floor with a glass of water in her hand. She had a very anonymous face. Her hair was black and seemed to have been dipped in holy water. I addressed her, but she turned away.

When I opened my eyes, other girls my age were standing around and watching me. I blinked and blinked. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, then reappeared. Around me, the mountains suddenly seemed to rise up like walls. I looked at my hands, which were shaking. With one quick movement, I reached into my pocket and grabbed hold of the moonstone. I gathered my things and stood up. I nodded to the others. They nodded back. We walked to the cableway.

We flew forth above the valley. Motor hammering rhythmically, cables crackling. Around us were mountain clefts, insects, thistles. I looked to the ground, where women were at work. They were wearing cotton gloves and gathering something in large baskets. Wintergreen leaves with sturdy stalks. Autumn nettles, maybe. Mallow. I caught sight of a piece of granite beneath one of the wooden benches. Around me, the others were speaking ceremoniously with each other. They took hold of each other’s hands, tossed their long hair and laughed. Next to me sat a girl who seemed familiar. She had one of those faces that could easily serve as a screen for other people’s projections.

She said her name: Cassie.

I nodded.

I said my name: Rafaela.

The cabin rocked and I gasped. We had arrived. One of the girls pulled open the doors, and we climbed out. We looked around. On a tree trunk was a high-polished metal sign bearing the name of the hotel. We started to walk down the only visible road. It was a wide avenue, the forest billowing softly on either side. The road slunk through the landscape and then vanished around a bend. The dust whirled around our shoes. No one said a thing. All that could be heard was the dull, rhythmic crunch of gravel.

As if out of nowhere, the hotel appeared behind a very old oak tree. Right away, I noticed that there was something wrong with its proportions. Against the backdrop of nature, the hotel looked like it was in miniature, like a doll’s house that had been handed down through the generations. The façade had at one point been painted a bold red that had faded and was now rather pink. As soon as we were through the gates, they shut behind us. The building sat in the centre of a manicured park. There were manicured bushes in even rows. There were whitewashed statues. We walked in a line with our luggage in our hands. The air trembled around us. We passed a fountain and a steaming thicket. There was a smell of dust and water and burned hair. All the windows were open. Music was coming from inside the building. Bright notes pinging the mountains. It was a classical piece that sounded as though it were being performed by an orchestra made up of deeply unhappy people.

I didn’t know why the place frightened me. It was a beautiful day, and everything was beautiful wherever I went. I stood still for a moment and tried to fill my lungs with the thin air. The fountain emitted a soft gurgle. I looked around. There was a clothesline and a bed of roses. There was an herb garden. There were wide stone steps leading up to the entrance. The front door was dark brown and seemed to have been cut from a single piece, as from an unnaturally large tree. Someone leaned forwards and knocked. I shut my eyes briefly, as though to hide. When I opened my eyes, I was looking right into a grave face. In front of me stood a woman with a duster in her hand. I wanted to laugh but didn’t. You’re here, she said. She was dressed in a black suit, the name ‘Rex’ embroidered with a silvery thread over her heart. She studied us with half shut eyes before moving aside and letting us in.

We stepped into the dusk. The music was louder here. The floor vibrated beneath our feet. I wanted to cover my ears, rest my forehead against a doorframe, and shut my eyes. The room looked like a scene from some blood-soaked ancient drama, where grave women in draped dresses moved across a stage, knives in their hands. Somewhere on the other side of the set, a chorus shouted its lines about shipwrecks and revenge and murdered daughters. I looked up. Through the dusk, I glimpsed a vivid mural on the ceiling. A stormy sky with scudding clouds, gold accents, and wild horses. All the walls appeared to be red. The thick curtains were drawn and didn’t let in any daylight. The lobby’s only illumination was a pair of silver candelabras on marble pedestals set far apart in the room. It could just as well have been a night with a darkening moon. I clasped my hands and looked around.

At the reception desk, a woman was sitting behind a pile of paper. She was wearing a formal suit dress with a figure-hugging jacket. She looked like a secretary. Or rather, she looked like an actress playing a secretary. We were led up to the desk and had to give our full names, so that she could tick us off a typed list. Over her heart was an enamel brooch on which the name ‘Toni’ was written in italics. She handed each of us a slip of paper with a number on it. The hotel’s purple stamp glowed against the white page. I got number seven, which seemed to be a given. When she handed me my paper I happened to curtsy, as if out of old habit. Surprised, she shook her head. She smiled, I blushed.

I ran my hands through my hair and turned around. A woman in a housekeeping uniform came up to me. Her gaze was evasive but friendly. She handed me a basket made from plaited plastic filled with cotton balls and shampoo bottles and hand soaps shaped like fruit. Over her heart I read the name ‘Costas’ on a handwritten paper tag fixed to her apron with a safety pin.

The moment the last of us had received our slip, the music came to a stop. We gathered in the middle of the room. Rex drew the curtains aside, and golden cascades of afternoon light flooded the room. Under our feet a marbled linoleum floor gleamed. The marble wasn’t marble, but hardened oil. Next to me was a bouquet of flowers on a sideboard. Carnations, green, reaching for the ceiling. The vase was knobby and seemed to have been made by a very young child. Clumsy hands that had tried to shape something beautiful. The colour reminded me of cough medicine, I could taste it in my mouth. I looked at the other girls. For a moment they all had green eyes. It must have been because of the sudden shift from darkness to light and all the red around us, something to do with the contrasts. We stared at each other, anxious but also smiling. Their irises seemed to be seeping through the whites of their eyes and down their cheeks, only to evaporate there. I lifted my hands to my face. It felt damp.

As if on cue, we cupped our hands over our eyes. We stood like that for a while, breathing deeply. Something seemed to pass through the room. It sounded like a sack being dragged across the floor. We let our hands fall and looked around. The spell was broken. I counted nine pairs of eyes blinking fast, as if in shock. I turned to the mirrored wall on the short end of the lobby. My eyes were black again, as usual.

I broke away from the group and walked alone up the stairs, through crimson and soft-lit corridors, all the way to the seasonal workers’ dormitory on the second floor. The beds were lined up in even rows and looked like bunks. On each mattress was a black uniform dress with shiny buttons. It could just as well have been the dormitory of a penal institution. By the window was a bed on which the number seven was painted, white on dark wood. The bed was made with rough sheets. The hotel’s emblem was embroidered in purple, surely by hand. I set my suitcase on the floor and went up to the window. Everything was sparkling clean. At first, I thought the windows were glassless. I opened the hasp and leaned out. The air was hot but fresh. I couldn’t get enough of that taste of mountain and sun and chlorophyll, my lungs drank and drank. Down in the courtyard, some of the girls had gathered. I think they were smoking under the cover of a bush, or they were discussing something secret, something that demanded seclusion and shade.

Beyond the park, the forest spread. There was no horizon, only a curtain of bark and trunks. Mountains rising to the sky and disappearing among the clouds, which were thin and wispy, as clouds are in the mountains. Autumn was attacking tree after tree. Soon everything would be a flaming yellow. A hot and consuming light would settle upon it all. We were to walk out into the forest. We were to pick berries and make jam. We were to air out our coats in the park. I lifted my gaze. From the treetops an image emerged. As through an oval portal, I saw the contours of a structure. The building was very old, built of rough-hewn stones in a simple pattern and surrounded by a small but lush garden. I saw red apples hanging in the trees. I saw bed linens drying on a washing line. I saw that the heat had laid itself upon the herbs and burned them. I thought: A convent. I took out my sunglasses and went back to the others.

We gathered in the staff refectory. They treated us to cherry cordial and almond cookies. We opened wide and swallowed. I felt ashamed of my shoes and my dumb face. I took a seat in the middle of the room, next to a potted golden cane palm. It smelled dry and hot. My shirt gleamed against the Paris-blue glaze. I have always believed this: hiding is easiest when out in the open, when you unveil yourself as one would a statue in a rural square. Someone whips off a large black velour shroud with one quick gesture. A murmur ripples through the crowd, but no one is looking at the statue. They are all watching a point behind it, something shining in a shop window, a jewel.