 Hello. You're going to get started. I am so excited to see this wonderful, big, happy crowd here. This is so great. July is often one of the smaller salons, I mean, because it's summertime, but this is the same crowd we always have, so great. I'm so happy. I am Wickey Kerr, and I'm one of the co-organizers of the Arles & Hopper Salon. I am totally delighted to be here. And I am so happy to tell you that we have three wonderful readers tonight. We've got Mark Askin, Daphne Caloté, and Shuba Sunder reading tonight. And all of them are writers of many things, but writers of short stories, and they'll all be reading short stories this evening, which is going to be really, really fun. I have a few little tiny bits of housekeeping that I'd have to get through before we get going. The Arles & Hopper Salon is a free reader series with a twist. Each author's presentation includes a sensory element to complement their reading, whether it be music, photos, smells, tastes, all sorts of different things. And we are thrilled to be able to host this event at Kickstand so that you can experience all of these senses. It did not work quite as well on Zoom. We were limited more to the visual. Although actually one time we had somebody make and eat cookies and describe what they tasted like, which sounded like a fantastic idea, but I think they're all just like... It was a great idea, but it didn't work out. So this salon takes place quarterly. It's been going up for about eight years. And the next one is coming up on October 5th. And the lineup for that one is, oh, we've got Jennifer Hague, Josh Barkin, and Helen Elaine Lee reading the best one. So they're all friends, and they actually came to us as a unit and said, we would like to read this one. And we were like, ah, cool. Very fun when they all be off to see each other. So that's going to be a good one. Make sure to mark your calendars and we'll send out information about that as it draws closer. Tonight, each author will read for 15 minutes, and they'll have time within that 15 minutes for their whatever sensory element that they have brought along with them. And then at the end of the readings, after they've all read, they're all three going to come up on stage and do a Q&A. So if you have questions while they're reading, just hold on to them in your mind, and then you can ask them of the authors at the end. And tonight, one of our readers, Mark, has actually brought some refreshments, some cheese and crackers, and some wine with him, which is lovely. And we're actually going to adjourn the two with the patio outside after the reading in order to enjoy those. So if you'd like to stick around and do that, we're more than welcome to do so. Mike from the Bookwreck is in the back of the store. He has books for sale for Daphne and Shuba, and he has a mailing list for Mark's book because his book is coming out at the end of the year. And so please, if you're interested in buying books, please buy books, give them as gifts. Some are beach reading, you know, whatever you want to do. And be sure to sign up for Mark's mailing list so that you can be alerted when his book comes out. Okay, so thank you so much to the kickstand. This is our favorite. We've done this event here since the very beginning. Love it. It's so cozy and wonderful. Thank you to Emily and her whole staff. And thank you so much to Sarah and the Arlington Library. They are our partners in this event. And we've closed it. That's why we have multiple microphones. They were posted online after the event, which is very, very cool. So we're happy to have that. And thank you as well to the Arlington Library's foundation, which funds this event series. And we're happy that we were able to give little unrare names to the authors and make this whole thing possible. And I'm just going to read their mission statements because it is quite impressive. The ALF is dedicated to helping open the doors to all who are curious, creating an inclusive space for the Arlington community and ensuring the library's future is the cornerstone of the community for generations to come. Reporting the Robbins and Fox French libraries, the foundation works to create a place where readers and resources connect. The Arlington Foundation raises funds to bridge the gap between assets and aspirations in order to maintain a world-class library. We help support current programs and launch new initiatives. The foundation believes the libraries are more than physical spaces to find books. They are windows into adventure, innovation, creativity, community, and opportunity. We strive to make that possible by investing in the libraries we love. And I feel like this event series is also a cool window into adventure and innovation. And I think that is what Tonight will be as well. So with that, I will introduce our first author of the night, and we will get started. So first up tonight is Daphne Calate. So happy to have her here with us tonight. Daphne's books include the award-winning novels Russian Winter, Site Reading, and Blue Hours. And two story collections, Calamity and Other Stories, which was shortlisted for the Story Prize, and The Archivists, winner of the Grace Payne Prize. Published in over 20 languages, her work has won fellowships from the Christopher Isherwood Foundation, McDowell and Nando. She lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. Let's welcome Daphne. I'm so happy to be here. I'm so grateful to Whitney and to our colleagues who are not here for inviting me to read here. And also thanks to everything Daphne and Sarah who's going to help me with the presentation. One of the things that's exciting to me about tonight is the prompt that we are allowed to use. I'm going to try something brand new. So my book that I'm going to be from, which is new, is called The Archivists. This is what it looks like. And the title story is called The Archivist, and I've never read from it because I thought, oh, it's too difficult to follow if you're listening because it intertwines the different storylines and I don't know if people can follow. And when I was given the prompt, I immediately thought, oh, I know what I want to use, a photograph. I want to use the photograph that's on my refrigerator door, which is a photograph of my grandmother. And then I thought, oh man, that would be a great photograph for the story. I thought of it because my grandmother inspires a lot of my writing. She's inspired a couple of the stories in this book. And then when I thought specifically of this story, I thought, oh, that's interesting because the second storyline, actually the picture I have in mind is a photograph of my mother. So then I thought, maybe I can use my different photographs for the three different storylines. So you're going to see what might to you be a very boring PowerPoint tonight. Because it's just three photographs over and over. And I'm going to get through the whole story. You're just going to hear the beginning of the story. But my hope is that we'll start to see not only thematically, well, maybe you'll just see thematically how the story is maybe bringing together, but hopefully that you'll also be curious to see the other ways that we're just going to line up. And in the photograph. So, here it is. Ottawa. Here it is. Ottawa, March 30th. A petite desk in her living room. The grandmother writes to her granddaughter. My darling, thank you for the flowers. The petals are the exact covered blue. I will have sabre take a picture. For dinner, we are having roast duck. Also soup, potatoes, asparagus, and chocolate cake. Don't worry, we have two ducks. Love and coffee. The flowers, blue hydrangea, are a gift for her great day. Big, plump, periwinkle clusters, like outrageous compounds. The flowers arrived at the shining pink ribbon tied around the bone, but the grandmother found it inelegant and removed it. Do you think that this is the flower? Oh, what's this story? I'm just going to stand here. Her daughter, Leah, is already in the kitchen. There are the two ducks to roast, plus the vat of soup to start simmering. Not to mention the side dishes for Sable, her grandson's wife, a vegetarian. The grandmother pushes herself up from the desk. With the aid of a cane fashioned after the stop of bamboo, she makes her way to the narrow fluorescent lit kitchen, and Leah is arranging the ducks side-by-side on the enormous roasting pan. No heads or feet, just the cold, plump bodies, firm and slick. The grandmother stands at the kitchen door way to watch her daughter trust the study legs with twine. She likes to make certain everything is prepared the right way. In an operating of dance studio in New York City, a retirement valouriness stretches her leg over her then leotard she wears a loose sweatpants, and a little bulero-style knit sweater tied in a knot at the breastbone. Not quite so high, she explains, her leg fully outstretched, toes pointing at the air in their tight leather slippers. It feels good, the strong edge of her leg, the arch of her foot, muscles extended in a single focused intention. When the starch is coaching, a dancer with her hair in a high-plunged ponytail or keeps the movement too eager, her effort is visible, beads of sweat crowning her forehead, her leg jabbing at the air, rather than piercing it. The combination she's learning, choreographed a quarter century before her birth, and intensely difficult, hasn't been danced in three decades. The retirement valouriness name is Bryn. She's 68 years old and works in Houston as a consultant to the ballet. Off to NYC, he emptied distant memory. She wrote last night to register fans on her blog, while waiting for her flight to New York. She has promised her doctor to do nothing that will in any way strain her banny. The two trust ducks are slid into the oven. One of her secretly worried too won't be enough. She has the same worry every year. The fact that there are always leftovers in no way eradicates the residual hunger of cautioning early worry ones again. Claiming to her pain, she tugs over the refrigerator door and fears at the crowded shelves searching through the turkey scraps through the soup. Ways, just the tips, was expensive. She says, let me get those. And lifts the styrofoam frames. Shovels them to the sink. Winses the cold, slippery turkey parts under the faucet. In the stock pot, wedges of parsley and carrot sizzle against white layers of bordered onion. With a wooden spoon, the grandmother nudges the vegetables to the edge of the pot to make room for the turkey parts. Leah drops the neck and wings in a muslin splutter for a bit. Then covers everything with water and sets the lid partially across the top. The grandmother turns the flame higher. In a laboratory, a few miles northeast of Los Angeles, two research associates are beginning the day's work. It's 9.30 a.m. The study is of an early stage, data collection. Simple, repetitive. The first subject to arrive is a 27-year-old girl. Woman, the first researcher. Also a woman grumbles to her colleague, a man who sees nothing demeaning in referring to her name as girls. It's infantilizing the female researcher explains. Her colleague explains that people would never use the word girl for anyone who isn't actually young. For women too old to be girls she prefers the term ladies. Practicing the deep full breaths she has been advised to engage in at such moments. The female researcher heads down the hallway to the room where she will collect the girl's data. C4 entering, she taps a quick into her smartphone about men who call women girls. As much as her Twitter account is diversion, it is also a record of her daily thoughts and activities. To not record something would mean she believes to lose it. The solo Leong Phong stars to learn was choreographed in 1969 in protest against the Vietnam War. All the wars the choreographer later clarified and told of his mother's beloved worldwide brother who died in the labor camp. The dance, Gors March, was first performed on a swelter in July evening at the Jacobs Pillow Festival in Massachusetts. In the times of the next day the quick wrote of Bryn's quote, dignified carriage giving way to fury and heartbreak. And of the way she quote seemed to radiate perseverance in the face of neither of them. Photographs from the date show a young round sheet Bryn in a black leotard with a thin white belt on her waist. The expression on her blind face resolute. Though brief the dance required prodigious strength by the end the floor of the stage was wet from her perspiration. For the entire 14 minutes that she was dancing she could feel the pancake make up non-day. From that night forward each time she performed it she told herself it was her very last dance. She told, oh she felt it so deep to use everything she had sweat pasting her leotard to her skin veins pulsing bruises emerging on her knees where she sometimes felt too hard just a limp wet rag that was how she felt by the end it was a wonderfully satisfying feeling. I looked online says the other star they're taking a break drinking water from big plastic bottles and blazing with the company's logo it's true no one ever filmed it I wonder why I've got lots of recordings of you but none of this one the grandmother's other guests have begun to arrive first her son Benji and now her grandson Dave his six month old baby and his wife Sable the vegetarian everyone is cooing at the baby an oblivious creature capped into a car mask it's thanks to the baby that Dave and Sable have moved back to Kingston to be closer to family as the grandmother is embraced by Sable her cheeks soft and cool Dave sets down the manifold bags that accompany the baby on even the shortest of travels already Sable's complimenting the grandmother's fine color how lovely she looks somehow her flattery always seems genuine in fact the grandmother has always found herself fascinated by Sable her easy manner calm, untroubled that air of steady contentment even now a new mother Sable appears relaxed about the baby and seems to have gotten enough sleep which Leah always claims to find suspicious but the grandmother secretly admires happy birthday Benji saying holding out the gift he's brought a blazed ceramic pot containing a bright blue hydrangea the research associates are collecting data concerning a gene connected to the regulation of stress hormones that's all they've been told they don't yet know that their subjects have come to this study via archives within 20 years ago they do not know that the archives founded by a famous film director are video testimonies collected from around the world recorded for an institute now located here at the university the testimonies describe starvation, brutality and death they speak of life in ghettos enlightened in camps in forests and alleys on the run instead of watching archive videos the laboratory researchers read swabs of DNA the institute began collecting samples over a decade ago in an effort to reconnect dispersed families and identify bodily remains but the researchers have been employing the samples for a different end an ongoing study of intergenerational effects of extreme trauma specifically how the stresses of the holocaust may have altered the DNA not only of holocaust survivors but also of their descendants epigenetic inheritance is the term environmentally cost modifications of genetic material via chemical tags that attach themselves to DNA in previous studies Jewish holocaust survivors in their offspring were shown to share the same epigenetic tags while the control group Jewish families living outside of Europe during the war didn't this new study will test the theory that epigenetic tags are passed not only to children Louder the blue of the second hydrangea the one from her son is very close to that of the first but slightly more violent the petals bright and absurdly healthy could be leaves from some oversized blue clover or the wings of a strange blue butterfly the grandmother has her son set the planter on the teak desk meanwhile atop the round glass coffee table the bouquet from her granddaughter in California makes a sort of altered reflection carrying the blossoms over the lip of the vase the plant from her son has a small white tag dangling over the edge of the ceramic pot hydrangea written in looping script the grandmother leaves closer to read the tag hydrangeas require plenty of light and daily watering a hydrangea is a symbolic way to say thank you for understanding she looks over to the coffee table at the vase bursting with the hydrangea blossoms those periwinkle ones from her granddaughter are the light ones Brynn massages the area around her knee so far so good she just needs to remember to ice it when she gets back to the hotel for a few years the four smart solo was her signature piece created for her when she was yet 20 danced for the first minutes in silence with live drumming gradually layered in the piece begins slowly meditatively building to a frenzy and then ultimately calming itself among the photographs of her on her website is one of a young fearless Brynn hurling herself across the stage while a stern-faced drummer plays impassibly behind her it was flattering and honored to have a dance made for her even if she had also been fending off the choreographer's advances for some time after she left the company for a troop in San Francisco the dance was retired from the repertoire and never performed again when the choreographer died a few years ago Brynn spoke lovingly if with carefully chosen words at his memorial service her work with this restaurant was part of a project to archive lost dances it began as an internet campaign and has since received national attention Brynn finds the online platform Go Gun B Crass it seems these days anyone can ask for money or anything and astonishingly receive it once revived Brynn's piece will be publicly recorded and added to an electronic archive dances long forgotten the funding page explains will exist once again recalled, performed and shared in perpetuity and I'll stop here thank you guys for your patience as we brought in more chairs that's always a good song and thank you for that to Daphne, that was so good next up we have Shusa Sundar who is the author of Boone Town Role a story collection that won the 2021 St. Lawrence Book Award and was a finalist for the Flannery of O'Connor Prize for short fiction her writing has appeared in places like Catapult, The Common and Narrative Magazine and has been shortlisted for short stories she has received fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council the Boston Mayor's Office of Arts and Culture and the Corporation of Ghetto her debut novel, Optional Practical Training I hope that title looks okay is forthcoming from Grable Press in 2025 is that correct? I looked it up and I was like that sounds like forever away and it was like oh it's not it's like a year and a half so that's exciting Massachusetts College of Art and Design let's welcome Shuba Can you hear me? It's so nice to be here thank you Whitney and Anjali in absentia and everyone who helped put this together it's an honor to be here and I love the element of I love the sensory element of this program because for me especially writing this book which is set entirely in my hometown of Bangalore, India in the 90's so it's displaced in both time and space because I wrote it here the way I access the place of my childhood is through my sensory memories and I'm sure everyone has had the experience of listening to a phrase of music or getting a whiff of something and just being transported and I rely on that and so I've passed around a bowl of this what's a fairly peculiar snack in South India called Murku and it's gluten and dairy free so I guess that's a concern there's not enough for everyone but hopefully anyone who wants a little bit can find a more silk so I'll read excerpts from two stories out of my collection and really one of my goals in writing this book was to sort of make a portrait or a sort of chorus of voices to capture Bangalore in this very particular time in the 90's just when I sort of came with age and when the city transformed from what was really a sort of backwater in India Bangalore was never supposed to be a big city or by this little town really to a mega-electropolis in the Silicon Valley and I have characters of different ages throughout the book so I'll read an excerpt from one story that centers on an elderly character and an excerpt from a story that focuses on a young person a very full day he was, locals agreed to a quintessential Kavadi Nagar retiree in his wool silk trousers navy loose sweater and plate scarf wrapped tight about the ears Sikhe Raj Gopal, former Air India pilot cut a live solitary figure as he strode down in Maine on his feet he wore the ergonomic shoes his son had brought for him from America designed for trekking of Indian sidewalks as son had said the shoes had for the past weeks felt heavy like stones tied to his ankles but this morning, strangely it was no longer so perhaps his leg muscles had needed time to adjust to their own load perhaps he was rejuvenated by winter and air whatever the reason as he made his way to Wadiya Lake past the provision store and the barber shop still shuttered at this early hour past the temple and the sugar cane juice stall Mr. Raj Gopal experienced some likeness as if the ground were falling away from him and he were floating over the pavement stones and under the lawn mowers through clouds of golden dust churned by the municipal workers' rooms at the lake he found him to be his friend from the covering of our senior centre waiting for him on the bench Autotic shoes are on strike today would be said so I can't see my cardiologist Good Mr. Raj Gopal said you won't have to waste your time what will he tell you that you're getting old you have no health problems Sikhe and my problems if you need luggums all the time how can you expect your partner to suffer it if you need healthily all the time Sikhe then you know what will happen you will die a healthy man they sat off from their daily loop wouldn't be laughing at his own joke Mr. Raj Gopal rotated his arms to exercise his shoulder joints warm and a long sweet ruin sweater knitted for him by his late wife earlier that morning she appeared in a vision crouched on the floor and acted in shelling peas as he drew nearer she twisted around her head to shovel her face contorted in rage her mouth opened she began to curse she pronounced him a demon a monster a selfish bastard names she had never once uttered in their half century of marriage he opened his eyes and watched the contours of the rooms from an interview from the guava tree by the window a parrot shrieked he sat up and swung his face to the floor by the time he was in the kitchen feeding water for his shade he had dismissed her words dreams were for more to him than a sign of fitful sleep at lifelong conditions suffered by all career pilots slow down Sikhe Mr. Raj Gopal slowed his pace they were approaching the far side of the lake where the occasional motor spooned the two men discussed how the chief minister had done a decent job restoring the city's parks how the rural population neglected was going to give him the boot in the next election they took turns promising the country's future neither man expressing full agreement with the other yet not explicitly disagreeing either by the time they returned to their starting point of the bench both felt a renewed conviction in their views you're coming to the centre this evening with what we said for the astrologers talk I hear he is going to tell us about the origins of the universe and he is an astronomer astronomer, correct? he is also a Romilo Mukherjee's nephew he has spent the last 15 years abroad at Yale, Stanford, Oxford etc now he is back in Bangalore at the institute Mr. Raj Gopal gazed across the water the lake was barely upon so small he could distinguish a heron on the other side bursting in an eucalyptus tree during his flying years his vision had been perfect even now through his spectacles serpentine neck and downward slanting beak I ran into Romilo yesterday at the Mukherjee who was the continued she wanted to know if you were coming what did she say? I just told you Sikil she asked if you would be there at the top why were you laughing at me? she was your friend, is she not? you were lady friend to be more precise a very fine lady Sikil if you would permit me to say Mr. Raj Gopal watched the heron rise into the air she was in a small stray ranch I always come to the lectures he said stiffly, that is how I keep the mind active it would be clapped on the back you are the most conscientious among that Sikil and of the dust dragon girl the girl was the dragon's head clean cardboard scales eyes the size of cricket balls crocodile mouth spilling crimply orange flames inside the papier-mâché shell a state of perpetual dust made cool and slightly dismaking breath swirling about her ears fumes of drying the fevicol outside a broiling afternoon in a year of severe drought the closing day of a six week arts class in the vast compound of a British hero mansion before an open air stage an audience of 30 or so parents sat beneath the mango tree and found themselves with newspapers an occasional gust of wind set off a drizzle of half-broken fruit in ten years time the tree would be felled the mansion demolished the city's ponds on to mud and flies but on that day, late in the millennium the mangoes fell by themselves as a chorus sang from behind a downward screen custard the dragon had big sharp teeth and spikes on top of him and scales underneath the girl was 12 years old the mask came down to her waist with her hands on her shoulders she gripped custard by the molars the train of children followed lined up in descending order of height green columns strapped to their heads to one driving the spiny blade it was the girl's first time as a leader a world she'd earned by her superior height in public her body did not know how to carry itself the girl's foot that had rounded her hips and chest also left her gangly and mugging me under the mask with no one watching she could bend on her neck she could pick up her head beneath the blazing sand the dragon bristled and reared and whipped as fire snapped when the pirate came on stage waving his plastic pistols the girl charged him with vigor almost ripping the green bedsheet that tied her to custard's body neither of her parents were there to applaud the performance friends did not gather around afterwards to say congratulations they'll keep in touch she had a tendency to shy away from people her face contorted as if in a scowl girls whispered to each other that she'd talked too much of herself boys smuck up behind her and yanked at her braid you're bigger than they are the teacher said when she complained can't you stand up for yourself that same teacher after the performance might have given some words of praise well done lancy nice to see you smiling for a change have a little confidence in your work for but after the adults had clapped and made their way out from under the mango tree after the dragon's head had been placed in the middle of the stage for all to admire after a domestic from the girl's household dispatched to pick her up had searched frantically all of her mansion grounds it was concluded the girl had disappeared for an hour she roamed beyond familiar streets her sandals were slippery with grime her eyes burned from the heat and the smog she maintained a brisk pace looking on their head as if she had walked these paths a thousand to ten thousand times as if she had a destination and no time to waste she passed compound walls veined with mould and a crown of golden villa three storied apartment buildings in whose driveways kids are laid for playing cricket the shade was patchy the four o'clock sun was strong already her entire body had felt dirty as if she had been rubbed with oil and rolled in the dust she had eaten since breakfast her stomach was unnot now treasurer would have reached home by now she would have shifted her mother's critique on the railroad her mother would be screaming at him ordering him to get out and find the girl and not dareshear the space again until they brought her back she passed a college with a granite facade and windows bordered in green teenagers were either in a bad mood or in a fave night some smoking, others nicking on the seats of red tumors months and calls to watch useless youngsters, the father would have said when I was their age I was spending my free time meeting Sanskrit poetry the only new of this country is going to the dogs what's up girlie the student in the college Kuttha called to her why are you staring nice jeans, said Kuttha's companion a young woman in a purple dress where'd you get them Hansi looked down at her clothes and caught her with her own perspiration in her wardrobe there were sandalwood scented soaps sun silk shampoos, lotions infused with almond and rose she went to take a bath and she gave her tea which meant sometimes she bathed two or three times a day how long she wanted until her next wash you don't know English, eh? her father said you live nearby? Kuttha asked in Kannada the students were sitting side by side on the curb observing her with friendly interest Hansi replied in Kannada she had picked up the language as a toddler surrounded by servants who spoke it out of far away in the village Kuttha said, what does your father do? he's a farmer, he has a bullock cart he works in the fields the kid thinks she looks like a villager Kuttha said, we're running to English tell us some more stories, Gurley where's this high-class village of yours? I am a dragon my name is Kustard the students frowned at each other mental case, Kuttha said he padded a cell variety you people are the mental cases to Kuttha and set off with a new spring in her knees it felt good to be rude to speak nonsense to strangers in the centre of the lot of her stomach were lucent in the shade of a Jacaranda tree she reached for her squeezy bottle and cut the little one fountain of water with her mouth she took out a tomato sandwich a pink sticky mess in its plastic wrap and ate it in three bites around the corner was a small street market passing a cart piled by the mangoes she grabbed one and dropped it into her bag before the vendor or anyone else could see it was her first time seeing she strode past stands setting lakes, snickerships and stickered in beads and men's and women's underwear plastic buckets when she went shopping with her mother to boutiques and troll rooms in the cantonment area she passed pavement stalls like these stocked with colourful dusty wares that her mother would never be able to buy now she can go to red and orange to Kuttha running from a hook on board without rough and slippery at the same time the material she had never before touched if the street ones were crowded if the vendor sitting afoot from her having looked at her like he knew she was up to no good she might have tried to approach it a few blocks past the street market it was a small park she sat on a bench to grab the mango with her sangra teeth into it into its leathery skin for a long while she sat there a breeze called her sticky face three pros spotted with a mango seed she tossed it around with her hand I can see to her forever she thought like the man in the fable who stood so long in the forest with vines below his legs she closed her eyes the wind whispered in the rain trees when she opened her eyes she saw figures hanging before her it was a man red mouthed and yellow-eyed lifting a fingerless hand to his face beggars were not a problem from the car not charging something rolled up the window to keep their dirt and diseases outside the window commercial street her mother a beggar child with wild brown hair tugged at her t-shirt before she could react she slapped the beggar child's hand away she then held her own hand the one that had dealt the slap away from her body until they reached home where she scrubbed the dirt off and instructed her brother to do the same otherwise he would get electricity she said another girl coiled from the beggar man he raised his other hand which had fingers he was an empty team and I once saw not a liver she shook her head to say she had no money looking down the man unwell to the front of his cooking into this penis swept belt it stretched this way on that before pointing straight at her like a snake coming out of a hole preparing to bear its fangs a roll of canna bobbed their scarlet heads as she ran trying to find the gate she'd come through it's light ripening when she found the gap she tripped fell and scraped her hands this stretch of sidewalk was deserted darkened by overhanging rain trees whose roots had warped and cracked the paving stones at any moment the man could spring out from beyond a tree trunk when the pavement ended in a deep trench forcing her onto the road and into the traffic it was something of a relief to be cocooned by the swirling motorcycles the warm salted fumes of exhaust the burning busts of all of this I'll stop there, thank you that was similar to visual it was like being in that world thank you so much so our final reader for the night is Mark Eiffen Mark has a PhD from the Graduate School of Geography at Clark University from 2015 to 2019 he was a visiting faculty member at the State University of Zanzibar his fiction focuses on life in Zanzibar and in red state America his stories have appeared in still points arts the Adirondack Review West Trade Review Toyone and Rome Turn of the Richard Cortes Day Prize in Fiction current projects include a work of short stories in both Swahili and English to be published in Dar es Salaam in 2023 at the end of this year a mystery of Zanzibar a novel of Lawson Renewal set in San Point, Idaho so he has a mailing list and I think an excerpt of his work as well available in the back at the book table so you can get that if you go to the mic welcome Mark so thanks very much Whitney and Anjuli in absentia and to the Kibstan Campaign it's all lovely to be here thank you so much the next mystery experience that I brought with me is Congress so the Congress in Zanzibar are used for everything they're made as skirts mostly but people use them to do all sorts of things they cover tables with them or they cover openings in people's houses with them Zanzibar Congas in particular and they're called and these are ways that women communicate with other women when they want to make a point and so you know if you think that one woman has the eye on your husband you would wear one that says people who are in love the enemy has no opportunity so they're quite the communication is another level of communication going on and so these are Zanzibar Congas the story that I'm going to read from is called Kutaroga and To Escape as Whitney has said a book of stories called A Wind, Sand and Sky published in Dar es Salaam in English and Swahili later this year the stories are related in the sense that the same characters and places appear throughout but the protagonists are different in the first story the protagonists are Zanzibaris in the second story the protagonist is a burned out American and in this story that I'm going to read from there's a protagonist that's a Zanzibari man and a British woman and it's a love story of sorts it doesn't end well for either of them but it doesn't end entirely unhappily so I'm going to read from the beginning and then skip to the end there is some Swahili but I think the meaning should be evident and it does end with one phrase that has a special meaning for Zanzibaris and I'll explain it when I get there before I begin I have a special shout out to my writer's group and to the writer's room of Boston where I work and to the book designer Whitney on this project and my agent Kristin Chey at Blue Hen and also to my editor Alison Murphy Every month we mobile to himself as he reluctantly marched upward to Uncle Yusef's apartment He then in dust jumped off each step his legs cemented and felt a sweat on his back under his shirt Uncle Yusef owned the agency that hotels called when they needed a guide a driver, a ferry ticket a woman or a man for the night those wanting regular work with foreigners as Morawi did paid Uncle a little something and Uncle Yusef in turn spread this little something to the street hustlers, the money changers the newly hired assistant managers and their lacky hotel folks this was insurance as Uncle pointed out, not corruption you wouldn't want Uncle to lose your phone number and it was income redistribution in the grand tradition of the revolutionary government in return for a little something everyone got more or less what they needed nephew, Uncle's voice echoed through the dust in the stairway I heard you were coming about it's a sequel what's the news of the day Morawi reached the top of the stairs removed his sandals entered the small sitting room following Uncle's invitation perch on the edge of the day that covered a newspaper in plastic the room never changed the green paint was only partially hidden by a faded flag and a picture of the president shaking someone's hand a flat screen TV played silently in one corner and the kitchen table occupied another Onyck was a top in Hotspur a tea towel and a set of chip cups the dada poured tea no news Uncle Uncle counted the money Morawi paid him and wedged it carefully next to the seat cushion of the worn green Victorian armchair thank you nephew I am grateful to God diabetic sweating under the ever turning ceiling fan Uncle glanced at the television and the street below do my best to your family in where is it again I guess a lovely place have you been there Uncle so I hear Morawi recognized this as the dismissal it was moments later he bumped roughly down the stairs lighter by many thousands of shillings the tea glasses no doubt were already empty ready for the next one from the village desperate for work why is it yes the stairs that I will only hear and there but I must pay every month to loud Uncle's voice echoed in the stairway like dust so many guides so few jobs at the bottom of the stairs sawdust shuffled in the alley sliver of shade they shared a room behind the chicken barbecue in London you paid regularly he said Uncle must like you how many months do you owe I don't know they began walking together should I remind you how can I pay sawdust shrugged his shoulders in question if I don't work that my friend is a contradiction of the amount remember university if you don't pay you won't work and if you don't work you can't pay truly what others have to eat even before Uncle if you don't pay soon you will never be able to work for Uncle again but that I'm sure maybe my sisters in moonway will send a gift sawdust shook his head at this impossible prospect what deal would you hear from your family look and Robert took his phone from a pocket and flashed the screen at sawdust it was filled with texts you can't drink the war much water from the village well these days it tastes like the sea they need money to buy water from the truck you think they think you have money they think I have more money than they do true sawdust but what does Uncle say you can't believe the stones isn't that what he does to us and Robert glanced over his shoulder and shook his head the money in the box under my bed isn't growing at this rate I'll never build a house or get married and you will never see your famous fountain in Rome that picture you have you can't even afford a fairy ticket to dark maybe you'll have to teach me so we can swim together they both laughed at an old running joke between them sawdust able to swim like so many zanzibars afraid of the water in my dreams I don't have to swim I see the fountain every night sawdust smiled and looked away you should take that picture off the wall before it makes you crazy that look Robert sawdust sawdust's eyes and on too many mornings he sawdust in his own looking back at him from the mirror a long time ago his father caught him with that look staring down a path that led to the shore you're going to stumble when you look to the horizon his father caught him on the head when the next step is just here on your feet he distrusted that look now as his father had then but on those days when he had no work when he woke up more tired and when he went to bed he needed something beyond the stone buildings and the winding streets less time dreaming more time working they threaded past families with their history wrapped in bedding in bags of clothes past taxis and trucks stalled in an unmoving queue on the road to the port sometimes sawdust still looking far away dreams were more important than food you just say that except when you're hungry just past the breakwater the night market was assembling and the shirtless teens dove stoned rampart into the sea jumping high off the wall each boy held onto his precious instant of freedom suspended between rising and falling as twilight felt to darkness the market stalls came alive and veer multicolored electric bulbs and gas lamps sputtering in the cooling night wind the smell of potatoes fried in oil and the salt air from the harbor they beat like a drum they sat together on the stone step feeling each other's shoulder and used a single toothpick to share chips and salad there was turret music from the rooftop of a nearby golden tulip hotel probably in a lani wedding sabba got out of a bottle that had a wet rag as a stopper something with orange soda and alcohol the lights from the stalls and the night market were flashing and sabba came close and said almost in a whisper I have a special question what would that be do you want something here something sure or is your freedom anymore sabba passed the bottle to marabu who drank deeply in a single gulp and then passed it back why would you ask me this I am asking because sabba took another drink once you know the answer you must not let anything or anyone stand in your way and that would include you sabba laughed cradling the bottle marabu recounted sabba's teeth and felt as if his legs were made of cheap plastic and everything around him began to tilt and spin fireworks left lit the sky especially me my friend you're my friend especially me sarah went exhausted out of her eyes as she walked down the streets of shengan among the gaggle of overheated tourists her phone buzzed in her pocket and she stole a glance as they paused in front of another building one with a tailor shop and a woman with a beautiful smile selling bottles of homemade juice it was her flatmate in London the one that convinced sarah into taking this trip after she had yet another half drunk at night a takeaway tenduory of cheap rosé she didn't need much convincing it'll help you get away from Mr. Doctor at the very least her flatmate had said referring to the married man sarah had been seen hazzardly since before her own divorce had finalized you in love yet? she rolled her eyes yes, she texted with the coffee she wished she had some coffee now it was only her second day in Zanzibar and the throb of jet that had yet to dissipate still, it was thrilling being somewhere where she knew no one had no associations it made her think of that short poem she loved so much by Aracela's Bremé how far the world renewed and tall and filled finally with strangers her life in London felt that way filled with strangers but here at least the strangers renewed it made her fear of the world feel bigger she tuned back into the guide a tall looking man with a professional charm who sarah had begun to fancy this is the house of a wealthy trader in the 1800's notice the chains and flowers and the wood carvings and these large copper spikes on the door are designed to protect the house from the elephants which roam the island sarah ran her hand on the outside of the door elephants seemed like the kind of thing a tour guide at home might throw into a void reviewing some grizzly bit of history chains and flowers she thought about the juxtaposition of chains and flowers as the other tourists do selfie sticks to take their photo pictures she pulled the tour guide aside listen to what she said wouldn't it be possible to have a private tour? I'd like to see more of the real Zanzibar she loves she can stumble down I mean you know to give a sense of the rhythm of daily life here when he smiled broadly she felt herself smiling with a flexible back with a lightness she hadn't felt in months I would be happy to give you an insider's tour for you here in Zanzibar you chuckled everything that's possible so now I'm going to read toward the end of the story after Murabu and Sarah have had an affair and their affair has ended but Sarah is about to leave Zanzibar and return to England Murabu asked Sarah to meet him before she leaves and they fight and they reconcile again and I'm reading from the beginning of the last scene and then at the end of the story he sat in a far booth up on the roof of Swat Daily House and didn't order when the barman asked in English what he was drinking perhaps he looked as if he belonged up here above the scurry and bustle of the lanes below but he felt none and only wondered if she would come up on this roof was their best moment while they were becoming friends before their lovers and before they somehow got to each other's way maybe she would think so too and that would be a knock to bring her Murabu, I want you to have this she handed him a small poetry book and it marked the poem see the one we read thank you Sarah how did your son she said they both were smiling as he once told me a little Swat Daily goes a long way even with me to England he watched her face hoping to memorize it as they walked toward the lift in my country she said this is where we were shaking hands or even hugging and saying we'll see each other soon but I suppose that's not going to happen which part is not going to happen Sarah I suppose none of not the hug or the handshake or even the wishing I think this is something where we are more truthful I don't imagine we will see each other soon he hoped to draw the seconds out do you remember the poem the one we read yes of course do you remember the end where it says he thumbed down through the book to the page Sarah had marked and scanned down the poem says but love is the sky and I am for you just so long and long enough that's how I want to think about this it felt like love and it felt like freedom and maybe it was that feeling of freedom that I was truly missing Sarah put her hand on her shoulder so she asked softly can we still do the wishing then yes suppose we can still do the wishing well then she had a passport to take it in her hand as she brushed his take good care of yourself more over one friend Safari and Gemma Sarah makes the antibiotic tea that tastes like air she laughed push the button wave to him the silver doors closed standing at the parapet Marava would receive the text tomorrow in the early morning while the shadows were still long on the ground and before the streets were crowded uncle needed him to carry a gift a little thing to the new assistant manager to the hotel you know the place beyond the old fort beyond the house of wonders as the wind whipped around him he looked down to see Sarah hurry into the ferry the masiko was coming and its first drop slammed into him it would take only a few minutes for the walls to begin to pool for the dust to settle and the lanes to fill with rain he stood and scanned the town the port the sky and the sea the certainty that this place made of stone had been here long before he arrived and would endure a long after he was gone the storm came in as it would this time every year feeling the wind in his clothes hearing the rain crash against the roof on which he stood tasting it mixed with his sweat Marava lifted his arms and welcomed yes he told himself there was much to be learned much to remember within his life here he was freed to hear the stories visitors might tell about people in the villages and the wind blowing across beaches that stretched beyond the horizon he was freed to catch the stories of the zandibaris about politics and the market and the boys that pumped to town to discover who they might be and if you listen carefully he was freed from the stories about heat and dust love and truth about what is real and what is dreamed the stories of the zandibaris and the visitors might tell each other to go from what you mean later we are together forever the authors come up I'm just going to very quickly bring the chairs up for them so start thinking of your questions I'm just going to pass the mic between the authors you're welcome to ask a question that they all can answer or a question to a specific person so the question is about the creative process and how long it took all the writers to write their books I think with my story collection I probably wrote the first story in that book maybe around 2014 or something and I finished the most recent one in the past year really a tough one in the last moment but I will say there is a story in the collection that I wrote and it was done when I had my first collection it went to it was part of that collection when it went out to publishers and then I decided it was not even right I'm trying to remember and then I decided I wanted to have a unified story collection that was all linked and that one didn't get in until I took it out and I realized oh this dramatically fits in and I like that story so there's a very old story in this new book as well over 10 years is the short answer it was my first book and I started many of the stories when I was in graduate school and then finished them after the program I also wrote a novel called from town girl that took me about four years and my agent can sell it so then I turned it into a short story which is I told my students I don't recommend this as a way to write a story it's just too much work but so that's not the type of story and it was really during the beginning of COVID I looked at all the stories and I think one of the reasons it took me so long to write the book aside from I had to learn the short story form and I had to learn how to write that but I was also feeling this pressure to be a bit ambassador of my mentality in my own country and I really felt like this has to be a good book about Bangalore and I realized that Bangalore is just too too broad and once COVID put it in perspective and we were all thrown into this time warp and I realized this is not a book about Bangalore it's a book about Bangalore in the 90s and then it all came together so how long did it take me to write this four years, six months two weeks and 14 hours 14 hours actually it was about four years I wrote the middle story first and so that one I wrote at the beginning of the Trump administration when I thought the world was going to be blown up and so it sort of has that going on in it and then the others came along sort of in their own scene so it was probably about three or four years sure the question in case you didn't hear are the characters based on people I met when I was in Africa that's a good question I think the characters are based on situations that I saw not on very specific people although the settings are quite specific so Sarah goes to a neighborhood in Stone Town called Shandani which is where the apartment that I have is and she visits a place which is the front of my apartment and so that's how it sort of gets transmuted into the story ask one more question and then I think we'll wrap up so that people can go outside and enjoy some crackers I hope you can hear me because everybody seems to have written about a setting that they know but they aren't in and I was wondering if you find that distance from the setting to be inspirational in some way I'd love to hear from all three if you have no response well it's interesting it's like my novel which is coming out full year a long time that's set in Cambridge but there's a lot of India in it so I sort of had to discover what it's like to write a character who's over here but that's a belong somewhere else I think to me it's a distance but it's almost a dimension where you're over here and you're writing about something over there I think it's a huge asset for a writer because you have a sort of margin of awareness around the place and you can put it in a sort of context and also because it's a little further you have to sort of make it real for yourself and for the reader so that sort of senses come in handy I could just answer very quickly and just say I don't know how much it affected the way that I wrote the story the one thing that was interesting to me was that I had a very specific location in mind which was my own family that's from Hungary and lives in Canada and when I wrote the story I made it in Michigan because it's like I wrote fiction so I was and then right before you know I was doing page proofs I thought they're in Canada this is so stupid and I came with double place names I think it helps me to think about it from some distance that is in other words although I go back to Tanzania it helps me that I write here when I write about Tanzania and I've also written stories set in LA I've written stories set in New Haven and I've just conjured up those places out of my own memory and then actually gone there to make sure that I didn't totally mess it up that it would be a war some relationship to what actually people would see on the ground so I think it does help me to have some distance so is it the book table in the far back you see Mike at the very back of the room if you'd like to buy books and then we'll be outside for a little bit so join us there as well, thanks