I decided to post the translated beginning of my book, which I plan to call Nasty Nights in English. It probably looks a bit different of the version that's been taken to Frankfurt Book Fair, but no worries. Sample it, taste it, enjoy it.
He turns to one side. Four in the morning.
He turns to the other. A woman.
By color, shape and smell of it, it should be Amanda. He checks the face.
The skin under her eyes is shiny. But over her cheek, it’s opaque. She called that a mixed skin type.
Her hair was changed. He touches it. The tresses fall apart in between his fingers.
He cannot tell her new colorwave right in this darkness. It’s probably located between color numbers 3 and 6, maybe a mix between two or more tones in the brown-reddish scale. He knows such things because he’s about to complete twelve years of hair intimacy.
She had a perm on the first time he met her, at Paulinha’s, at a time when he was but yet another boy in a trenchcoat in that miserable heat, and when she was considering to hold off college and go lounge around Europe just like her sisters and cousins had. She had spent the ’88 Winter as a redhead, recycling the half-coats and boots worn during her Hitchcock blonde stage (spiral buns and hair-sticks); in ’91 she mimicked a native girl, long dark straight hair, artificially tanned, tribal accessories, only to appear just before New Year’s Eve with a late-yuppie look. He could barely make out he was married to a blonde.
From his vantage point he could see stars, even laying down as he was. Stars. Shining as if nothing was happening. Whilst somewhere in town people were drunk and naked having dirty hot sex. And laughing as if things were granted and easy, not belligerent and covetous.
So stars were bothersome and he would close them curtains if they existed. But they didn’t. His wife had asked for his input and he had said whatever. Now he sorely repented in a china cabinet.
At least he has nothing of interest to be looked upon.
In the trash bin, he discovers an auburn chestnut color. Its name: Tobacco Honey.
Amanda’s watching turned-off TV. Again.
The first time he busted this behaviour of hers, in the middle of a black-out, he was sure she didn’t sit there every afternoon, first thing when home from work, just to watch TV. No way. She was brooding.
He cooks up an approach.
He opens the cabinet door left of the TV.
There’s a half-bottle of whisky.
He quickly closes it.
She had lightened a cigarette. TV still off. Of course, TV does get worse each day, but the fact that she had stopped to bother turning on the TV before complaining about the quality of the programmes, and even allowing the irresponsible color-show to disguise any darker thoughts, was very worrysome.
link to this post ~ 11:13 AM
|blog_sibylla (English version) - by Simone Campos|
Don't bother to buy any of it, it's all in Portuguese.