Theatre of War

by Andrea Jeftanovic, Frances Riddle (Translator)

Overview

This assured debut novel from acclaimed Chilean author Andrea Jeftanovic explores the devastating psychological effects of the conflict in the Balkans on a family who flee to South America to build a new life. It is told from the perspective of the young Tamara, as she tries to make sense of growing up haunted by a distant conflict. Yet the ghosts of war re-emerge in their new land – which has its own traumatic past – to tear the family apart.Staging scenes from childhood as if the characters were rehearsing for a play, the novel uses all the imaginary resources of theatre director, set paint- er and lighting designer to pose the question: how can Tamara salvage an identity as an adult from the ruins of memory, and rediscover the ability to love? With themes that echo Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul , a sensitive narrator recalling Eimear McBride’s A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing , and a focus on the body in the style of Elfriede Jelinek, this is an artfully construct- ed, widely praised work from one of the most exciting novelists at work in Latin America today.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781999368487
Publisher:	Charco Press
Publication date:	11/10/2020
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	160
File size:	453 KB

About the Author

Andrea Jeftanovic was born in Santiago de Chile in 1970. A critically acclaimed novelist, storyteller and essayist, Jeftanovic is considered one of the most prominent literary figures of her country and the region. She is the author of two novels and two collections of short stories. She studied Sociology at the Catholic University in Santiago and completed a PhD in Latin American Literature at the University of California, Berkeley. Jeftanovic has received several awards, including the Chilean Art Critics Circle Award and the National Book and Reading Council Award. Her work has been translated into several languages and has appeared in anthologies in Chile as well as internationally. She is a regular contributor to Quimera , Letras Libres , and El Mercurio . First published in 2000, Theatre of War was her debut novel and is her first book to appear in English.

Frances Riddle has translated numerous Spanish-language authors including Isabel Allende, Claudia Piñeiro, Leila Guerriero, and Sara Gallardo. Her translation of Theatre of War by Andrea Jeftanovic was granted an English PEN Award in 2020. Her work has appeared in journals such as Granta, Electric Literature , and The White Review , among others. She holds a BA in Spanish Language Literature from Louisiana State University and an MA in Translation Studies from the University of Buenos Aires. In 2022, Frances’ translation of Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize. Originally from Houston, Texas she lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Read an Excerpt

I sit in the last row. From here, the empty seats fan out like lines of tombstones.The curtain rises on the shadowy dining room of my first home. Some familiar objects: the stone statues and the flattened wolf hide. In the corner sits a table with five chairs; the one at the head wobbles.The wallpaper is stamped with faded rosettes.The spectacle of my childhood begins. Repeatedly changing houses, we are unable to anchor ourselves to any fixed point.The removal van parked along the curb, the mattresses hanging off the roof and my tricycle always at the top of the pyramid.I sink into the plush sofa. I trace lines into the uphol- stery. I write a secret sentence on the backrest. I change my mind and rub against the grain of the fabric to erase my hieroglyphic. I hear Mum calling me from the street. My footsteps boom across the parquet; the stage trans- forms into an infinite hallway. I cross the bright threshold. Like some ritual of goodbye I take one last walk around the back garden.Wet rags are piled up on the patio tiles from the half-finished clean-up. I wipe the window of the house we’re abandoning.They’ve left my doll Patricia at the foot of the stairs. I stand there staring at her until my mother pulls me to the car with the engine already running. I press my face against the cold back window and cry without anyone noticing.The windows of all the houses I’ve lived in are super- imposed: a huge picture window looking onto a deserted street, an underground skylight, a wooden sill swollen with damp sea air, rusted iron bars framing a palm-lined avenue, a broken display window that went unrepaired for a whole year. Houses with both my parents, without my mum, with my brother and sister, with some old people I don’t know. First my room on the second floor with Adela and Davor.Then a small apartment with just Dad. A narrow single bed or the wide mattress I share with Mum. Our things in bags, in cardboard boxes, in old luggage tied shut with belts. In my small suitcase I carry a photo of a neighbour who was my best friend. I keep a glass jar of dirt from all the yards I’ve played in.I hate the house on the palm-lined avenue. That’s where everything started...The house needs fixing up. The walls are being painted, the floors carpeted with newspaper.The doors have been stripped and everything is covered in dust. I walk through the rooms and the newspaper scrapes, crackles. I run into Lorenzo.That’s the name of the workman who wanders the house dressed in overalls. He has black eyes, hairy arms, broad shoulders. As his paintbrush glides over the wall he whistles along to a tune on the radio. He says excuse me every time he walks into a new room. He paints the kitchen, excuse me , he paints the living room, excuse me , now my bedroom, excuse me . He has a sandwich in the kitchen for lunch. He takes a nap in the back yard with his shirt off. In the afternoon he puts a second coat on the walls he painted that morning. I inhale the dizzying scent of paint thinner. The workman lights a cigarette for Mum, then they lock themselves in the dining room for a long time. I picture those eyebrows framing his dark gaze. I don’t have a watch, but I know it’s been too long.Through the door I hear newspaper crinkling.The lock stares at me with its myopic eye. I lean against the window and count twenty- seven cars passing by on the street.Some time later, I pick up the phone. I hear someone say to Mum I love you and then laugh. It’s the workman. I recognise his raspy voice. Dad is brushing his teeth. I shout, I kick the walls, pull the buttons off my pyjamas. Dad rushes out of the bathroom, foaming with tooth- paste. He asks what’s going on. Mum raises an eyebrow and says just another one of her tantrums . My heart is a drum, beating louder and louder. Bambambam. I’m possessed by a hiccup that reverberates through my chest. The rhythm accelerates. She hands me a glass of sugar water, turns off my bedroom light, closes the door. Now my sobs echo against the pillow. The ember of that shared cigarette glows inside my head. The cyclops of the dining room door stares at me, offering a one-eyed synopsis in the keyhole. The headlights of the cars passing on the street brighten one corner of my room, leaving outlines of their shapes on the wall. A truck has just imprinted its cabin opposite my bed.Then sounds emerge from backstage.The director of the play announces that this has been a preview, a single scene. A private showing. The curtain rises and the first act begins.

Editorial Reviews

"A memorable novel of devastating poignancy." —Irish Times

"Exquisitely constructed and executed." —New Internationalist

"A memorable novel of devastating poignancy." —Irish Times

"Jeftanovic’s prose, seamlessly reproduced by Frances Riddle, is exquisite, each sentence carefully crafted, doing so much on its own, while contributing to the whole." —BookBlast

"Theatre of War is a confident debut and a powerful exorcism of one family’s inherited trauma." —The Skinny

"It shows us that wars last far longer than battles in the hearts, minds, the very DNA of those who have to suffer them. Theatre of War is an absolute triumph or literature." —Books and Bao

"Jeftanovic’s staccato rhythms, with short lines and stark and sometimes dark imagery, matches the urgency of the novel, along with its lyrical and symbolic qualities" —Morning Star

"Jeftanovic explores the darkest corners of human psychology...a rare gem." —El Cultural

"Restless and wholly engrossing." —Sounds & Colours

From the Publisher