Χωρίς οδηγίες/No Instructions Provided, Greek and English Translation, by Maria Tsangari

Untitled, by Congo the Chimpanzee (England) c. 1958

Χωρίς οδηγίες

Του έβγαλα βιαστικά το πουκάμισο, το έκανα μια μπάλα και το βούτηξα στον κουβά με την μπογιά. Πιτσίλισα τον τοίχο, τον καναπέ, το πάτωμα. Αυτός έκανε υπομονή. Μου θύμισε μία μία τις οδηγίες από το βίντεο που είδαμε μαζί online. «Είναι πανεύκολο», επαναλάμβανε ήρεμα. «Δεν μου βγαίνει», του είπα χωρίς να τον κοιτάξω. Έστυψα το πουκάμισο και στόχευσα ξανά τον τοίχο με μια απότομη κίνηση του καρπού μου. «Απλά βγάζεις το πουκάμισο, το βουτάς στην μπλε μπογιά και χτυπάς τον τοίχο. Μετά ζωγραφίζεις το υπόλοιπο. Kι όταν κάθεσαι στον καναπέ και φασώνεσαι, από πάνω σου δεσπόζει ένα πλάσμα του βυθού κι όχι ο λευκός τοίχος»! Δοκίμασα ξανά. Απλά μπλέχτηκαν όλα. Ένας κόμπος αντί για το πλάσμα υψώθηκε από πάνω μας. Ο κόμπος δεν είχε ούτε μάτια ούτε στόμα. Μας προκαλούσε να τον λύσουμε, χωρίς οδηγίες.

**

No Instructions Provided

I just took his shirt off. I crumpled it and dipped it in blue paint. I tried. I really did try.

It seemed easy at first. We started together, he and I. We watched a video about it online: you just take your shirt off, dip it in paint, and then spray the wall. So easy. Then, if you feel like it, you paint the rest. When you finish, you’re allowed to admire your work. You can even sit on the couch and make out.

Easy-peasy.

So naturalistic and vivid, a creature of the deep in my living room, watching us while he sticks his tongue down my throat.

So, I took his shirt off and dipped it in paint. It dripped all over the wall, the couch, the floor. I dipped a brush in another bucket. No luck.

He kept reminding me of the instructions in a soothing voice. “It’s easy. Don’t overthink,” he said. “Just follow the video we saw online.”

I gave it another try.  “It doesn’t work for me,” I said, without looking at him.

Everything ended up in a bundle: a knot instead of the creature was looming above our heads. Unfortunately, there was some distance between us. We weren’t making out, even though the instructions said we should.

The knot had no eyes, no mouth. And it seemed to be waiting for us to untangle it. And all this, with no instructions provided.
 
Maria Tsangari

The Greek version of this story previously appeared in Fractal.

Maria Tsangari lives in Nicosia, Cyprus, with her two cats, Sappho and Zozo. She works in local government by day and writes fiction by night—though she often neglects it more than she’d like to admit. Her short stories, written primarily in Greek, have appeared in various literary magazines and have received awards in Cyprus. She studied Classics at the University of Cyprus and Comparative Literature at University College London (UCL).