This is the first of a series of pieces written earlier in the pandemic by Portuguese writer Gabriela Ruivo Trindade. They appear here in my translation. Both original and translation can be found together on the author's blog.
30 March 2020
She followed the astonishment and disbelief of her friends and acquaintances during the quarantine. All of them, foreigners in this no-man’s land. At least it seemed that way. Everyone but her. She had known this place for a long time. As long as she could remember. She had always lived in quarantine. Nothing was new. This feeling of imminent danger, always anticipating catastrophic scenarios, misfortunes, calamities. It flowed through her veins. It was perhaps the very force that made her heart beat: fear. A partner for life. The disaster had happened long ago. So long ago that she could not recall it with any certainty. A shipwreck, a tsunami, a flood, a landslide. She had been left alone in the world. The sole survivor. No one had witnessed her despair. No one had soothed her wounds. No one had consoled her. No one. And when there are no witnesses, reality eludes us, our senses betray us. If no one was there to see, did it really happen? Was it just our imagination? If we could close our eyes and wake up from this nightmare, wouldn’t we do it? So, she gulped back the tears, the sharp pain that broke her in two, all in the name of sanity. Of survival. Unaware of anything, like an animal who continues despite the blood, tripping on their scabs. And thus, she carried on. And she found herself surrounded by people again. The world had always been there. She just hadn’t seen it. But if the world doesn’t see us, we may as well not exist. We feel a constant threat. Of death. At any moment we could disappear, dissolve into dust. Be swallowed by a black hole. And so, to keep ourselves safe, we need to hide. Shelter. Not be seen. Gather ourselves up in our cocoons. Take refuge in our dens. We know we are only safe if no one notices us. Because this way we are sure it cannot happen. If we do not belong to the world, it cannot reject us. Thus, we keep indoors with our fear. The most terrible fear. We get used to it. We care for it. We feed it. We grit our teeth and bear it. And at some point, we stop regarding it as a threat. The real threat is out there, in the street, in others, in the world; within our den, where we shelter with the fear, we are at home. Heart in mouth in a constant somersault, but at home. Always expecting misfortune, the taste of impending tragedy in our mouth, fright in our eyes, dread in our dreams. But at home. Quarantining. Completely alone and disconnected from the world. On the few occasions we venture out into the street, we enjoy the sun, the fresh air, open spaces, smiles, conversations, but we know we do not belong there. We were not made for that. It is only in confinement that we can close our eyes and rest. And as the world begins to quarantine, disbelief comes through the door without asking permission. Suddenly we are not alone in this shelter; we’re all here. The whole world has joined us, sheltered with us in a common fear. For the first time we do not feel alien. For the first time we belong. And how strange, to see all those people sharing the same feelings, the same anguish, the same confusion, the same alienation, the same despair. So many people who are not used to this, and who constantly complain about the most insignificant details; yes, to us they are mundane trivialities. Enduring constant fear, not being able to see one another, perishing within impassable glass walls; feeling that we are nothing, that we are powerless, that the best thing to do is to stay still until the world has forgotten about us. Welcome to my world, we feel like saying. And don’t hurry. Sit down a while. When everything is back to normal and you return to your lives, I will still be here. I am still here. A prisoner of fear itself.
Translated from the Portuguese by Andrew McDougall
Gabriela Ruivo Trindade (Lisbon, 1970) graduated in psychology and has lived in London since 2004. She was the winner of the Prémio LeYa in 2013 for her first novel, Uma Outra Voz, which was also awarded with the Prémio PEN Clube Português Primeira Obra (ex-aequo) in 2015 and published in Brazil in 2018 (LeYa – Casa da Palavra). Her other works include the children’s book A Vaca Leitora (D. Quixote, 2016). Between 2016 and 2020 she contributed to a number of poetry and short story anthologies, and her first poetry collection, Aves Migratórias, was published in 2019 (On y va). She manages Miúda Children’s Books in Portuguese, an online bookshop specialising in children’s literature written in Portuguese.
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