This is the fifth 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.
7 April 2020
Writers are split into two groups: those with another job and the half-dozen lucky ones who can dedicate themselves entirely to writing. The latter, generally, spend life shut inside their homes; the luckiest ones writing, and the others, who tend to be women, juggling domestic chores in order to be able to write. Note that I am generalising. I know there are many men who devote themselves to household tasks. They take the rubbish out, for example. And then leave the bin without a bag. Or they put the clothes in the machine, but find the programme has a knack to it that leaves their neurones on the brink of collapse. They also unload the dishwasher, and then we are left searching for the lid of a pan only to find it in the washcloth and tea towel drawer. And they cook, of course, but only if they don’t have to chop onions. I guess they must have more sensitive tear ducts. Or they think a man should cry, absolutely, but never because of an onion. Right, but what I was getting at is this: quarantine for a writer (one of said half dozen) is not very different to their normal life, if it can even be called that. Normal, that is, not a life, obviously; and, even so, this question could take us down some interesting paths of reflection, seeing as, so often, we feel like we have not one but various lives; others might lament not even having one worthy of the name, as, frequently, we are overcome by that inability to live the ordinary life of mortals. Once again, I digress. Let’s get to practical examples: my quarantine days have possibly been more exciting than those that came before. To start with, I have gone out almost every day for a short walk. I reckon that before long I won’t be able to do this, as it seems the government will be obliged to introduce drastic measures. The thing is, people keep walking in groups, playing football, sunbathing, as if it were nothing. As such, a few days from now, my quarantine will more closely resemble my normal life. I am also cooking more. The food disappears in a flash. And sometimes, I have the feeling I have travelled back in time: ‘Don’t stay up too late!’, ‘Tidy your room, it’s a pigsty!’, ‘Dirty clothes go in the basket!’, ‘Its midday, time to get up!’, ‘I haven’t seen you do anything but sleep and play on the computer!’… A sort of return to the past with two kids almost two metres tall. On the other hand, I have been working more. Between personal and collective projects, writing and translating, the volume has increased considerably. I can’t complain of boredom. The delights of quarantine.
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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