Jean-Christophe Réhel - Tatouine

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translated by Peter McCambridge

THE UNKNOWN HUNTSMAN by Jean-Michel Fortier

translated by Katherine Hastings

BROTHERS

by David Clerson

translated by Katia Grubisic

Finalist, 2017 Governor Generals Literary Award for Translation

LISTENING FOR JUPITER by Pierre-Luc Landry

translated by Arielle Aaronson and Madeleine Stratford

Winner, 2017 Expozine Best Book Award

I NEVER TALK ABOUT IT by Vronique Ct and Steve Gagnon

translated by 37 different translators

BEHIND THE EYES WE MEET by Mlissa Verreault

translated by Arielle Aaronson

SONGS FOR THE COLD OF HEART by Eric Dupont

translated by Peter McCambridge

Finalist, 2018 Scotiabank Giller Prize

Finalist, 2018 Governor Generals Award for Translation

EXPLOSIONS: MICHAEL BAY AND THE PYROTECHNICS OF THE IMAGINATION by Mathieu Poulin

translated by Aleshia Jensen

Finalist, 2018 Governor Generals Award for Translation

IN EVERY WAVE by Charles Quimper

translated by Guil Lefebvre

IN THE END THEY TOLD THEM ALL TO GET LOST

by Laurence Leduc-Primeau

translated by Natalia Hero

PRAGUE

by Maude Veilleux

translated by Aleshia Jensen & Aimee Wall

THE LITTLE FOX OF MAYERVILLE

by ric Mathieu

translated by Peter McCambridge

THE ART OF THE FALL

by Vronique Cot, Jean-Michel Girouard, Jean-Philippe Joubert, Simon Lepage, Danielle Le Saux-Farmer, Marianne Marceau, Olivier Normand, Pascale Renaud-Hbert

translated by Danielle Le Saux-Farmer

THE ELECTRIC BATHS

by Jean-Michel Fortier

translated by Katherine Hastings

TATOUINE

by Jean-Christophe Rhel

translated by Katherine Hastings & Peter McCambridge

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The days are long . By the end of my first shift, I considered committing seppuku between the hunting magazines and the Mauricie tourism guides. But I didnt. Ive never had such a boring summer job. I never thought Id get hired at a tourist office, but unfortunately for me, I was the only applicant. Nobody ever comes in. I arrange the brochures, I sweep the floor, I stare at the ceiling. Every now and again, Charles, the guy who works in the park, drops by for a chat. I can talk to him about Star Wars and my obsession with the planet Tatooine. I think about my life. Not very original, I know; everyone thinks about their life. I wonder what the hell Im doing here. Ive been learning Mandarin for the past couple of years. I watch Chinese TV every night. I started really getting into Asia after I saw Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon with Chow Yun-Fat. Now that I think about it, its ridiculous to want to go work in Asia just because of a movie. Id like to be an interpreter over there. Whatever. Im thirty-one. I dont have a girlfriend. Ive never really had a girlfriend. Sure, Ive kissed a few girls. And a guy once, too. He was a really good kisser. No, thats not true: I had a girlfriend for two years. I even vacationed down south with her and her family once. I havent been in love much. Once, maybe. And it wasnt with the girl I went on holiday with. Ive fallen head over heels for thousands of glances, thousands of smiles, thousands of chins. Ive had twinges of regret, disappointments, thoughts of death. Thoughts of death cause Ill never be able to know everyone. Cause Ill never be able to kiss everyone. I often feel like a ghost. A ghost whos learning Mandarin. A ghost who works in a tourist office. Whoo-oo-oo-oo! Wheres Trois-Rivires? Trois-Rivires is that way. Whoo-oo-oo-oo! I try to find myself somewhere. I flick through the Gaspsie tourism guide. There I am. Im the hole in Perc Rock.

Its sunny today. Blue sky, no clouds, no soul, no nothing. Its nine-thirty in the morning, and the heat is enough to burn your balls off. The air conditionings not working. I open all the windows, but its like being in a greenhouse. Im a fucking Mandarin-speaking plant. I talked about Chewbacca with Charles, but he went off to mow the grass as soon as he saw a guy walk into the office. A man about fifty, wearing a bike helmet. I hate cyclists; theyre always happy. He smiled when he saw me. Phew, I just rode fifty clicks! I replied, Way to go, thats that must be long. I didnt know what else to say. I have fifty clicks of skin wrapped around my heart. I dont feel much. I watch the flies buzzing around the office. There are tons of them. I try to kill them all with my cap. It takes me an hour to kill five flies. Where do flies go when they die? I picture ghost flies flitting around my head. I spot a cute girl walking up to the glass doors of the tourist office. Theres something wrong with her; shes limping. I like girls whove got something wrong with them. She walks past my desk and heads to the washroom. She disappears. Another girl, another sorrow. Its incredible. Girls are like butterflies. They flutter, they dance when they walk, they appear like magic. Theyve barely come near me in months. Im a very ugly flower, and the days are long. Ive got a big, fat face. My face has gotten fatter. Ive got fat cheeks. I try not to smile in photos, otherwise I look like I weigh about three hundred pounds. A three-hundred-pound flower. I look a little slimmer in the right pants. If my heart wore pants, it wouldnt even exist. The sunlights done a one-eighty in the office. In the morning, the lights the right way up. In the evening, its upside down. Like a bat.

The air conditionings working again today, and Im cold. I cant adjust the temperature. Im wearing a sweatshirt. It hides my fat belly. My frozen, flowery potbelly. Everythings under control. Very early this morning, a man from Russia asked me how to get to Montreal. Hed come all this way to see the giant puppets. He lifted his arms in the air and repeated, Big puppets! Five floors! Like that! I didnt know what he was talking about. I looked it up online and the Russian got all excited: Oh, yes, its amazing, its amazing! He smelled like lilac. A scrawny Russian who smelled like lilac. I pretended they were really cool. I didnt want to hurt his feelings. The puppets creeped me out. There was something satanic about them. I would have burned them all one by one to save Montreal. The day went by slowly after that. A bunch of ladies walking their dogs. A man holding an ice cream cone, staring at the sun. It was pollen season. All the poplar trees were giving off sticky, floury flakes. In the sunlight, it looked like the trees were dropping dimes from their pockets. An old guy came into the office and said, Wheres the snow coming from? I liked that. I told him it was coming from the trees. He didnt believe me. He laughed. I laughed, too, just to humour him.

Its raining. The place is empty. Charles didnt come to see me today. Too bad. I would have talked to him about R2-D2. I went outside to smoke on the porch. On the paths in the park, the pollen was dirty. It looked like wet poodle fur. It felt like I was smoking little waves of pollen, my lungs swaddled in a white cocoon. I dont think Im much use in this life; I dont serve any purpose. I dont know, I would have liked to have been a wrench or something. Id have known exactly what I was expected to do, and Id never have questioned it. I think of useful things: the sun is useful, car tires are useful, a flowerpots useful. I smoke a cigarette and watch the rain. I smoke nine cigarettes, one for each hour of work. Cats have nine lives, and I smoked nine cigarettes. A homeless guy came in. He looked at all the displays. He asked me how to get to Highway 20. He went to the washroom. He dried his socks under the hand dryer. The rain stopped. The sun came out. I would have liked to have been a hand dryer.