Constantine - In another country : selected stories

Praise for David Constantine

Winner of the 2013 Frank OConnor

International Short Story Award

Winner of the 2010 BBC National Short Story Award

After reading David Constantines story In Another Country I cant figure out why a US press hasnt caught on to his work. Hes won the Frank OConnor Award beating out Joyce Carol Oates, Deborah Levy, and Peter Stammand no wonder.Nicole Rudick, The Paris Review

Constantine is writing for his life. Every sentence and paragraph is shaped, tense with meaning and unobtrusively beautiful, his images of the natural world burning their way into the readers mind.Maggie Gee, The Sunday Times

Masterful pregnant with fluctuating interpretations and concealed motives. The Guardian

This is a superb collection of stories: Constantines writing is rare today, unafraid to be rich and allusive and unashamedly moving. The Independent

Sparkling. The Times Literary Supplement

Spellbinding. The Irish Times

The excellence of the collection is fractal: the whole book is excellent, and every story is excellent, and every paragraph is excellent, and every sentence is excellent. And unlike some literary fiction, its effortless to read.
The Independent on Sunday

An exacting wordsmith, David Constantine is always in complete control of his material, every sentence exquisitely wrought to convey exactly the mood he intends. The Good Book Guide

Constantines stories are not pre-prepared in any sense; he starts anew every time. Inspired by an image or specific instance, his work has a feeling of wholeness and growth. The Irish Post

Constantine is, quite clearly, a master draughtsman at work, and the short story is his ideal canvas. The Short Review

Flawless but unsettling. Boyd Tonkin, The Independent

This is a haunting collection filled with delicate clarity. Constantine has a sure grasp of the fear and fragility within his characters. A.L. Kennedy

So good Ill be surprised if theres a better collection this year. The Independent

I n Another Country

Selected Stories

David Constantine

Biblioasis

Windsor, On

Copyright David Constantine, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit
www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

The stories in In Another Country first appeared in David Constantines Under the Dam , The Shieling , Tea at the Midland and Other Stories , all published in Great Britain by Comma Press, and Back at the Spike , originally published in Great Britain by Ryburn Press (to be re-released by Comma Press next year).

FIRST EDITION

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Constantine, David, 1944-

[Short stories. Selections]

In another country : selected stories / David Constantine.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77196-017-5 (bound).--ISBN 978-1-77196-018-2 (epub)

I. Title.

PR6053.O513A6 2015 823.914 C2014-907953-2

C2014-907954-0

Readied for the press by Daniel Wells

Copy-edited by Tara Tobler

Typeset by Chris Andrechek

Jacket designed by Kate Hargreaves

In Another Country

W hen Mrs. Mercer came in she found her husband looking poorly. Whats the matter now? she asked, putting down her bags. It startled him. Cant leave you for a minute, she said. Theyve found her, he said. Found who? That girl. What girl? That girl I told you about. What girls that? Katya. Katya? said Mrs. Mercer beginning to side away the breakfast things. I dont remember any Katya. I dont remember you telling me about a Katya. I tell you everything, he said. Ive always told you everything. Not Katya you havent. She took his cup and saucer. Have you finished here? He had pushed them aside to make room for a dictionary. He was still in his dressing gown with a letter in his hand. My Katya, he said. I couldnt finish my tea when I read the letter. I see, said Mrs. Mercer. It worried her. Already it frightened her. Quickly she cleared the table. Excuse me, she said, while I shake the cloth. He raised the dictionary. A name like that, she said, coming back the two steps from the kitchen door, Id have remembered it. Shes foreign, by the sound. I told you, he said. His face had an injured look. One thing he could not bear was her not believing him when he said hed told her things. You forget, he said. No I do not, she said. When then? That made him think. A good while back, I grant you. It was a good while back. What worried Mrs. Mercer suddenly took shape. Into the little room came a rush of ghosts. She sat down opposite him and both felt cold. That Katya, she said. Yes, he said. Theyve found her in the ice. I see, said Mrs. Mercer.

After a while she said: I see you found your book. Yes, he said. It was behind the pickles. You must have put it there. I suppose I must, she said. It was an old Cassells. There were words in the letter, in the handwriting, he could not make out and words in the dictionary he could hardly find, in the old Gothic script; still, he had understood. Years since I read a word of German, he said. Funny how it starts coming back to you when you see it again. I daresay, said Mrs. Mercer. The folded cloth lay between them on the polished table. Its this global warming, he said, that we keep hearing about. What is? she asked. Why theyve found her after all this time. Though he was the one with the information his face seemed to be asking her for help with it. The snows gone off the ice, he said. You can see right in. And shes still in there just the way she was. I see, said Mrs. Mercer. She would be, wouldnt she, he added, when you come to think about it. Yes, said Mrs. Mercer, when you come to think about it I suppose she would. Again, with his face and with a slight lifting of his mottled hands he seemed to be asking her to help him comprehend. Well, she said after a pause during which she drew the cloth towards her and folded it again and then again. Cant sit here all day. Ive got my club. Yes, he said. Its Tuesday. Youve got your club. She rose and made to leave the room but halted in the door and said: What are you going to do about it? Do? he said. Oh nothing. What can I do?

All day in a trance. Katya in the ice, the chaste snow drawn off her. He cut himself shaving, stared at his face, tried to fetch out the twenty-year-old from under his present skin. Trickle of blood, pink froth where it entered the soap. He tried to see through his eyes into wherever the soul or spirit or whatever you call it lives that doesnt age with the casing it is in. The little house oppressed him. There were not enough rooms to go from room to room in, nowhere to pace. He looked into the flagstone garden but the neighbours either side were out and looking over. It drove him only in his indoor clothes out and along the road a little way to where the road went down suddenly steeply and the estate of all the same houses was redeemed by a view of the estuary, the mountains and the open sea. He stood there thinking of Katya in the ice. Stood there so long the lady whose house he was outside standing there came out and asked: Are you all right, Mr. Mercer? Fine, he said, and saw his own face mirrored in hers, ghastly. Im too old, he thought. I dont want it all coming up in me again. Were both of us too old. We dont want it all welling up in us again. But it had begun.