Le manuscrit The Manuscript

Le manuscrit

Je ne savais pas que Satan - Iblis pour les intimes - était de petite taille et
qu'il était si indiscret, voleur de surcroît.
       J'était à mon bureau en train d'écrire quand il est venu s'asseoir en silence à mes côtés. Moi qui ne suis pas un géant, je le dépassais d'une tête. Je le détaillai donc avec assurance, relevai un à un ses signes distinctifs. De profil, son nez paraissait long. Son œil unique n'avait pas de cils. Une étoile à sept branches était tatoeée à la commissure de ses lèvres.
       L'ayant ainsi dévisagé et reconnu, je me suis remis sereinement à l'ouvrage. Tiens, un poème sur Iblis, me dis-je. Il a suffi que j'émette cette pensée pour que mon compagnon s'agite. J'ai vu une main très fine sortir de sa poche et se poser sur ma feuille. À chaque mot que j'écrivais il ajoutait un autre, avec un sens réel de l'à-propos je dois dire. Mais si l'une de ses trouvailles ne me plaisait pas et que je la raturais, il me rendait immédiatement la pareille.
       Nous écrivîmes et corrigeâmes ainsi longtemps jusqu'au moment où la sonnerie de téléphone retentit. Je décrochai, attendis que mon interlocuteur se présente. Mais il n'y avait personne à l'autre bout du fil. Je finis par raccrocher avec rage.
       Iblis avait mis à profit cet intermède pour disparaître, emportant avec lui notre manuscrit.
 

The Manuscript

I had no idea that Satan - or Iblis to his friends - was a midget,
a gossip and a thief to boot.
        I was at my desk in the middle of writing when he came and sat by my side, silently. I'm no giant, but I was a full head taller. I was easily able look him over, noting each and every one of his distinctive features. In profile, his nose appeared to be long. His one eye had no lashes. A seven-pointed star was tattooed at the corner of his lips.
        Having thus examined and acknowledged him, I returned calmly to work. Well, well, a poem about Iblis, I said to myself. The minute I had this thought my companion reacted. I watched a very slender hand emerge from his pocket and place itself on my sheet of paper. For every word I wrote he added another with, I must say, a real sense of entitlement. But if I didn't like one of his ideas and I deleted it, he immediately responded in kind to one of mine.
        We wrote and re-wrote for a long time until the moment when the phone began to ring. I picked it up and waited for someone to speak. But there was no one there. I slammed the phone down.
        Iblis had taken advantage of this interlude to vanish, taking our manuscript along with him.
 

The Manuscript

I did not know that Satan - or Iblis to his friends - was of a short stature and that he was so indiscreet, and a thief to boot.
      I was at my desk in the midst of writing when he came and sat silently by my side. I who am not a giant, was a head taller than him. I was therefore able to look at him confidently, noting each and every one of his distinctive features. In profile, his nose seemed long. His one eye had no eyelashes. A seven-pointed star was tattooed at the corner of his lips.
       Having thus stared at him and recognized him, I calmly returned to work. Here, a poem about Iblis, I said to myself. It was enough that I emitted this thought for my companion to become agitated. I saw a very fine hand come out of his pocket and place itself on top of my sheet of paper. Every word I wrote, he added another with a real sense of cock-sureness I must say. But if one of his ideas did not please me and I deleted it, he immediately give me tit for tat and deleted one of mine.
       We wrote and made corrections for a long time until the phone began to rang. I picked it up, waiting for my interlocutor present himself. But there was nobody at the other end of the line. I finally hung up, angrily.
       Iblis had taken advantage of this interlude to disappear, taking with him our manuscript.
 

This prose poem – as playful as it is profound – was a real delight to translate. In our version, we tried to capture some of the irreverance of the original French – such as in the opening lines, where we described Satan as ‘a midget, a gossip and a thief to boot’.

‘Iblis’, by the way, is the name given to Satan in The Koran: a sly dig at religion from the secular poet when he writes says that the Devil is called, ‘Iblis to his friends’.

Sarah Maguire, Workshop Facilitator

Original Poem by

Abdellatif Laâbi

Translated by

André Naffis-Sahely with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

French

Country

Morocco