Mihaela Šumić
Biography
Mihaela Šumić (born 1998, Banja Luka, Bosnia and Herzegovina) is a writer and translator. She participated in literary festivals Imperativ in Banja Luka, Rukopisi in Pančevo and Kikinda Short in Kikinda and Belgrade. Her first book, a poetry collection named Nekoliko sitnih uboda (eng. A Few Small Snips) was awarded with the Čučkova knjiga award for the best debut book published in 2020. Her second book, a short story collection Herbarij svete smrti (eng. Herbarium of The Holy Death), received the regional literary award Štefica Cvek. In 2022, she published her second poetry collection named Imenik Laure Carvalho (eng. Laura Carvalho’s Phonebook). Her first novel Čovjek vuk (eng. The Wolf Man) was published in 2024. She translates from Spanish, English and Portuguese. She translated Fernanda Melchor’s novels Temporada de huracanes (eng. Hurricane Season), Paradais (eng. Paradais), Falsa liebre (eng. False Hare) and her short story collection Aquí no es Miami (eng. This is not Miami). Her translations of poetry from authors such as Juan Bañuelos, Abigael Bohórquez, Margarita Paz Paredes, Rosario Castellanos, Clarice Lispector and Adélia Prado have been published in several literary magazines and online literary pages.
Nominated book : Čovjek vuk (The Wolf Man)
Summary
Excerpts
Za sve što znamo o svijetu zaslužni su tragovi. Tragovi stopala, dla- nova, prstiju, zuba, tragovi na stazama, u stijenama, u drvetu, na kostima, tijelima, na papiru, u riječima koje razgrćemo stoljećima, šutamo poput kamenčića na putu kako bismo otkrili srž praznine i začetak straha. „Za sve što znamo o svijetu zaslužni su tragovi”, ponovit će María Rosa Ibarra Sánchez desetljećima kasnije na otva- ranju izložbe školjki u glavnom gradu zemlje koju je napustila prije nego što su i ona i ta zemlja bile sigurne u vlastito postojanje, zatim će pogledom tražiti iščezlo lice svoga oca u gužvi, tražit će ga u pre- lamajućoj svjetlosti na užarenom asfaltu, tražit će ga i u izgužva- nim komadićima papira na podu kuće u selu, one iste kuće u kojoj je odrasla i u koju je godinama odbijala kročiti. Pronaći će samo tragove boli i krivnje koje su poput nemilosrdne vojske marširale tim pustim i nijemim prostorom.
Mnogo prije njezinog rođenja, u šumi u blizini sela pronađena su dva traga nalik velikim šapama, toliko velikim da su seljani dani- ma obilazili to mjesto, mjerili širinu, dužinu, poredili ih sa vlastitim stopalima, dlanovima, sa šapama psa, vuka, medvjeda, no u uspo- redbi sa tim strašnim tragovima sve je izgledalo toliko sićušno da nikome nije bilo jasno kako je jedno tako veliko biće neprimjetno tumaralo šumom i o kakvom se to biću uopće radi.
„To nije ni čovjek, nije ni vuk”, ponavljali su pomno obilazeći trago- ve u kiseloj zemlji, svaki put prislanjajući svoje dlanove uz tragove koji će uskoro postati prvi dokaz zlobe tog nepoznatog i nevidlji- vog bića, onog kojeg su nakon nekoliko dana počeli oslovljavati sa „Čovjek vuk”, iako su se njegov i ljudski i životinjski oblik pažljivo skrivali negdje iza drveća, šiblja i niske trave.
Nisu joj znali ni ime kad su je pronašli mrtvu u šumi, tek nekoliko metara niže od tragova zarobljenih među šumskim stazama. Zna- li su da ju je nekoliko mjeseci ranije otac doveo Guillermu i Aniti Vaquero pred vrata, imala je možda četrnaest ili petnaest godina kad je počela raditi za njih. Rijetko su je viđali van kuće, ali tko god bi ušao u tu kuću primijetio bi koliko je sve čisto i uredno, a Anitina djeca, njih šestoro, bila su okupana i očešljana, što je do tada bilo sasvim nezamislivo. Čitavo selo znalo je za vrijedne ruke Anitine nove pomoćnice, žene su je molile da im je posudi bar na jedan dan, iako je nisu imale čime platiti, jer Guillermo i Anita Vaquero imali su novca, dva vinograda nedaleko od sela i restoran u gradu. Pri- čalo se da je don Guillermo radio u kraljevskoj tajnoj službi i da je, nakon rasturanja nekoliko organizacija koje su planirale puč, od tadašnjeg kralja Pilanga dobio nekoliko hektara zemlje i restoran u koji su dolazili samo imućni ljudi iz tog dijela kraljevstva. I zato Guillermo i Anita Vaquero i njihovih šestoro djece ništa nisu morali znati o životu na selu, za njih je to sve morao znati netko drugi, netko kome nisu znali ni ime. Bilo je 10 mnogo tih bezimenih dje- vojčica i dječaka koji su dolazili i odlazili, čistili, spremali, kopali, gradili, održavali vinograde, kosili oštru travu, izvodili životinje na ispašu, nekoliko koza i dvije krave koje je don Guillermo dobio kao poklon dobrodošlice od seljana koji su, čim su čuli da Vaquerovi plaćaju dnevnicu od dvanaest centi, brže-bolje svoju djecu odvlači- li do dvorišta te ogromne kuće, njihove meke i mršave dlanove okre- tali prema suncu, nebu i znatiželjnim ali ozbiljnim očima Guillerma Vaquera, stiskali njihova ramena i otvarali im usta da pokažu kako su zdravi, čvrsti, vrijedni i kako će sigurno biti dobri radnici u polju ili vinogradu ili bilo gdje, koji god posao im dodijele, bit će korisni i njihove ruke sigurno će vrijediti tih dvanaest centi po danu. Don Guillermo je klimao glavom i smiješio se, uvijek držeći zapaljenu cigaretu u kutu usana: „Može, ali ako se bude žalio na posao, vraća mi dnevnicu od prethodna tri dana i neću nikad više da ga vidim ovdje.”
I seljani su to cijenili kod don Guillerma: bio je iskren i prije svega znao je kako se vodi posao, znao je s parama jer ih je, za razliku od njih, imao i nije se trudio da to sakrije. Ubrzo su skoro sva djeca iz sela radila za njega, sva osim sinova Estebana Cordera, koji su na njegovo inzistiranje odlazili da se školuju u grad.
„Vaša djeca rade za don Guillerma, moja će jednog dana biti don Guillermo”, govorio je ponosno pred umornim licima seljana koji su sada sami morali obavljati sve poslove, budući da su im djeca čitave dane provodila radeći za obitelj Vaquero.
Don Esteban Cordero bio je mudar, ali vrlo neprijatan čovjek. Često bi hodao kroz selo i dijelio savjete koje mu nitko nije tražio: konj se ne potkiva tako, nego ovako, ne može se kopati tu jer je zemlja suha i puna kamenja, treba ići malo niže, ne smije se cigla redati tako, nego ovako, jer će se sve srušiti, ovo se mora rješavati na jesen, a ne u proljeće. Neki su ga slušali, neki su se pravili da nije tu, neki su se svađali: „Šta je, Cordero, završio si školu pa si najpametniji?”
Istina je da je u to vrijeme Esteban Cordero bio jedini čovjek u selu koji je završio školu; otac mu je bio trgovac, imao je svoju trgovinu u gradu i želio je da on jednog dana naslijedi posao, ali nakon očeve smrti ponudili su mu za prostor pet tisuća u kešu i ubrzo nakon toga radnja je sravnjena sa zemljom, a na njenom mjestu počela je grad- nja hotela. Esteban Cordero je za tih pet tisuća kupio dvije parcele i na svakoj izgradio po kuću za oba sina. Često se šepurio pred drugi- ma u selu i isticao kako će njegovi sinovi sa svojim obiteljima živjeti u svojim kućama, a ne kao njihovi, oni će samo jednog dana dovesti ženu u te skučene, malene kuće u kojima više neće biti prostora ni za krevet, pa će svi spavati na podu ili, još gore, u štali, rekao bi to škiljeći i podižući obrve, a zatim bi samo nastavio svojim putem. „Budala se svačim hvali”, netko bi odbrusio i uslijedile bi svađe i dovikivanja koja su trajala danima
Većina seljana je zbog toga izbjegavala Estebana Cordera, a sve što im je govorio otpisali bi kao bespotrebno mudrovanje čovjeka koji se smatrao boljim od svih njih, pa i onda kad je bio u pravu.
„Ako vaš don Guille nije u ovo upetljan, ubij me evo sad”, rekao je kad je don Guillermo Vaquero, sav zadihan i mokar, istrčao iz šume ponavljajući: „Čovjek vuk… Ubio ju je Čovjek vuk”, i prstom upi- rao u beživotno tijelo djevojčice koja je ležala na stazi, tek nekoliko metara niže od ogromnih tragova nalik šapama. Svi su potrčali ka njezinom tijelu, žene su se krstile i pokrivale oči, muškarci su je ćuškali nogama da se uvjere u to da je mrtva, bila je puna ožiljaka i modrica, a na vratu su joj se vidno nazirali tragovi zuba, tako dubo- ki da bi joj još jedan ugriz probio tanku i meku kožu.
Nisu joj znali ime, znali su samo da ju je otac doveo u tu kuću da pomaže Aniti Vaquero oko održavanja kuće i djece, znali su da je bila vrijedna i uredna, i to je sve. Sahranili su je tu u šumi kao upo- zorenje na Čovjeka vuka, na njegovu zlobu i krvoločnost, na njego- vo postojanje u gustoj šumi koja je opkoljavala selo sa svih strana.
Excerpt translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać
We are indebted to tracks for all we know about the world. Foot- prints, handprints, fingerprints, toothmarks, tracks on paths, in rocks, in wood, on bone, bodies, paper, in words which we spend centuries prying apart, we shunt like stones along the path on our way to discover the crux of emptiness and the germ of fear. ‘We are indebted to tracks for all we know about the world’, repeats María Rosa Ibarra Sánchez decades later at the opening of an exhibition of shells in the capital city of the country she’d abandoned before she and the country were sure of themselves, then she’d look around, seeking the vanished face of her father in the crowd, she’d look for him in the light refracting off the searing pavement, she’d look for him in the crumpled bits of paper on the floor of the house in the village, the same house where she grew up and where she’d refused to set foot for years. She’d find only tracks of pain and guilt which like merciless armies marched through this deserted, mute space.
Many years before she was born, in the forest near the village, two tracks were discovered resembling large paws, so large that the vil- lagers kept revisiting the spot for days, measuring the width and length, comparing them with their own feet, hands, with the paws of a dog, a wolf, a bear, but in comparison with the horrific tracks everything looked so tiny that nobody could figure out how a crea- ture so huge could be rambling through the forest unobserved and what sort of creature this might be.
‘Neither man nor wolf’, they repeated, circling around the tracks in the sour soil, laying their hands each time next to the tracks which would soon become the first evidence of the malice of the unknown and unseen creature, the one which, after a few days, they began referring to as ‘the Wolf Man’, though his human and animal form was out of sight somewhere beyond the trees, underbrush and low grasses.
They didn’t even know her name when they found her dead body in the forest, only a few metres below the tracks caught among the forest paths. They knew that her father, several months before, had brought her to Guillermo and Anita Vaquero’s door. She might have been 14 or 15 when she began working for them. Outside the house she was seldom seen, but whoever went in noticed how everything was pristine and tidy, and Anita’s children, all six, were washed and groomed, which until then had been utterly unimaginable. The whole village heard of the diligent hands of Anita’s new help- er, women begged Anita to lend her to them for a day every week, though they had no way to pay her, while Guillermo and Anita Vaquero had money – two vineyards not far from the village and a restaurant in the city. Rumour had it that Don Guillermo had worked in the royal secret service and that, after the dismantling of several organisations which had been planning a putsch, he was compen- sated with a few hectares of land and the restaurant by the then king of Pilango; their only customers were the rich people from that part of the kingdom. Hence Guillermo and Anita Vaquero and their six children had no need of knowing anything about life in the vil- lage; somebody else had to know it for them, someone nameless to them. There were many such nameless girls and boys who came and went, cleaned, tidied, dug, built, maintained the vineyards, mowed the sharp grass, took the livestock out to graze – the several goats and two cows Don Guillermo had been given as a welcome gift from villagers; as soon as the local people heard the Vaqueros were paying daily wages of 12 cents, they hastened to drag their children to the yard of the huge house, turned their soft and skinny hands to the sun, the sky and the curious but penetrating gaze of Guiller- mo Vaquero, squeezed their shoulders and opened their mouths to show how healthy, sturdy, hard-working they were and how they’d surely be fine workers in the field or vineyard or anywhere, and no matter what task they were given they’d be useful and their hands would surely merit the 12 cents per day. Don Guillermo nodded and smiled, always with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth: ‘But if he complains, he’ll give me back his wages from the last three days and I don’t want to see him here ever again.’
And the villagers valued Don Guillermo in this regard: he was frank and most of all he knew how to take charge, how to handle money, because, unlike them, he had some and made no effort to hide it. Soon almost all the children of the village were working for him, all except the sons of Esteban Cordero, who, at his insistence, went to the city for an education.
‘Your children can work for Don Guillermo, but mine will be Don Guillermo someday’, he said proudly before the tired faces of the villagers who now had to do all the work themselves, because their children were spending their days working for the Vaquero family.
Don Esteban Cordero was a wise but very unpleasant man. He’d of- ten walk through the village and dole out advice which nobody had asked for: don’t shoe a horse like that, but like this; digging here is a bad idea because the soil is dry and rocky, so go farther down; bricks shouldn’t be stacked like that but like this – otherwise they’ll collapse; this should be done in autumn, and not in spring. Some listened, others pretended he wasn’t there, some grumbled: ‘What, Cordero, you went to school so now you’re a know-it-all?’
It’s true that at the time, Esteban Cordero was the only person in the village who’d finished school; his father had been a shopkeeper, he ran a store in the city and wanted his son, one day, to inherit the business, but after his father’s death he was offered five thousand in cash for the premises and soon after that the store was levelled, and construction began on a hotel. With the five thousand, Esteban Cordero bought two plots of land and on each he built a house for his two sons. He’d often strut around the village and brag to the villagers that his sons with their families would be living in their own homes, not like the sons of the other villagers, who would be bring- ing their brides one day to live in the family’s cramped little house where there would no longer be room even for a bed, so they’d all have to sleep on the floor or, worse yet, in the barn, he’d say, squint- ing and raising his eyebrows, and then he’d proceed on his way.
‘Fools will brag about anything’, someone would growl at him and quarrels and shouting followed that would last for days.
Most of the villagers avoided Esteban Cordero because of this, and they’d dismiss all he told them as the empty braggadocio of a per- son who thought he was a cut above the rest.
‘If your Don Guille didn’t do this, kill me now’, he said when Don Guillermo Vaquero came running from the forest, breathless and soaked to the skin, stammering: ‘The Wolf Man… the Wolf Man killed her.’ And pointed to the lifeless body of a little girl lying on the path only a few metres below the huge paw-like tracks. Every- one came running to her body, the women crossed themselves and covered their eyes, the men nudged the girl with their feet to make sure she was dead, she was covered in scars and bruises and on her neck there were visible toothmarks, so deep that another bite would have broken through her thin, tender skin.
They didn’t know her name, they knew only that her father had brought her to the house to help Anita Vaquero with the housework and children, they knew she was hardworking and tidy, and that was all. She was buried there in the forest as a warning about the Wolf Man, his cruelty and bloodthirstiness, about his existence in the dense forest that hemmed the village in on all sides.