Assistant Editor Lily Meyer: I’m a literary translator, and when I began working at the Cincinnati Review, one of my big hopes was that I would get to publish a translation. I was excited about the idea of editing a fellow translator, by which, of course, I mean that I was excited about the idea of spying on a fellow translator’s process. I was delighted, then, to read Isabella Corletto’s gorgeous translation of Giulia Sara Miori’s story “The Airplane,” which Miori wrote in Italian.
Corletto takes pains to preserve the shape and flow of Miori’s sentences, often opting to twist or push English grammar into Italian forms. Somehow, though, she avoids creating a translation that sounds forced, strained, or torqued; instead, she blends one language’s structure into the other. In so doing, she creates both an unusual-sounding text and a fresh one. She also does a beautiful job conveying the panic that builds throughout “The Airplane.” At its start, the story seems simply to be about fear of flying, but by its end, its terrors have become stranger and far more existential.
Working on “The Airplane” with Corletto was a pleasure, and I will forgive both her and Miori for the fact that reading it repeatedly may have ruined the experience of flying for me for a while. The anxiety this story induces is more than worthwhile, I swear.
The Airplane
Three hours. It’s a three-hour flight. Three hours is nothing, absolutely nothing—in the time it takes to depart, you’re already descending. In the time it takes to ascend, you’ve already started to land. I can endure three hours; I can certainly endure it. So much can be done in three hours: reading, listening to music, eating. I’m not so sure about sleeping. Some people manage it. My neighbor, for example, fastens his seat belt, rubs his eyes, yawns. He yawns without covering his mouth, yawns while pulling a cushion out from under his seat—one of those cushions shaped like a donut. He’s clearly thought this through: I’ll sleep on the plane, he’ll have told himself, that way time will fly and it’ll be a breeze. I hate neighbors who don’t talk, and he clearly has no intention of talking. All he wants to do is sleep, rest his head on the cushion and sleep for three hours, the duration of the flight—though it could be less, depending on the wind.
My neighbor puts on his headphones and checks his phone. Did he put it on airplane mode already, or is he still sending out his last messages? They drive me crazy, these people who don’t put their phones on airplane mode. They never do it, they ignore the rules, and what makes it worse is that no one checks, no one says anything. The flight crew should check, all right: check the phones, all of them, one after the other, just like they do with the seat belts and the windows and the angle of the seats; Excuse me, we’re about to take off, you need to fasten your seat belt. Do you speak English, sir? You should really fasten your seat belt. You should really…
They check nothing. They don’t care—after all, flying isn’t dangerous. Airplanes are the safest mode of transportation. Nothing can happen on an airplane. As I tell myself that nothing will happen, that, really, nothing bad can happen, I look over at him, at my neighbor. Now his phone is on his lap, his elbow resting on the armrest, his eyes half-closed. I want to ask him to switch seats with me. I’m sure he’d be more than happy by the window. He looks just like the kind of person who’d pick the window seat in order to sleep in peace and then, after waking up, look down and say, Look at those beautiful mountains. Actually, no, he wouldn’t say that at all, he’d only think it, because passengers like him don’t speak. On airplanes, passengers like him think or sleep or stare out the window in silence. And as the flight attendant explains the emergency protocol, he’s already asleep. I’d like to wake him up, shake him, tell him to pay attention because this is important. I’d like to list all the plane crashes where nothing too serious has happened because he surely doesn’t know about any, he doesn’t know that there are dozens of plane crashes where nothing too serious happens. He thinks that in the end, if the plane does crash, we’ll all die, amen. This is what he believes, and he doesn’t care about the emergency lighting path on the floor or about looking for the nearest emergency exit. He’s made peace with the idea of death long ago. In fact, he’d rather die, there’s no other explanation, and if the airplane were to crash down on those mountains that look like they’re so close, if the airplane were to plummet toward those mountains sprinkled with snow, he wouldn’t have any objections. On the contrary, he’d be pleased.
The airplane jolts forward, we’re about to take off, I hear the sound of the engines and know that soon fear will turn me into an animal. I will no longer be a woman in her thirties, but a wild animal ready to escape—and where to? There is only this uncomfortable seat that makes me feel trapped. The window is right next to me, I want to close the shade but I can’t, the windows must remain as they are during takeoff. That’s the protocol. That’s the protocol, I tell myself as the airplane lifts off from the ground. That’s the protocol, I think as my neighbor sleeps as though in his own bed, and I, instead—it’s shaking, the airplane is shaking, everything is gray, everything out there is gray and the airplane is going up and down, down and up, and the flight crew is nowhere to be found. I want to wake him up, wake my neighbor up and shake him and ask him if this is normal. Excuse me, is this sound normal? Is it normal to see nothing? Is it normal to see no one? Well then? Is it normal?
I look at my watch and two hours have gone by. Exactly two hours. My neighbor is awake now and reading a book in French. I’ve been good: I haven’t spoken to him, haven’t held his hand, haven’t cried. I’m calmer now that I know there’s only a short while left. I look at my watch. It’s 4:34. I’m calmer now that there’s one hour left. I could even sleep. I could even rest my face on my hand against the window and relax for a bit.
I open my eyes. What was that noise? An air pocket? How long was I asleep? We should be there soon. I look at my watch and it’s 4:34. The battery, I think. The battery must be out. But I replaced it a month ago. I take my purse from under the seat, rummage through the chargers, books I won’t read, coins, pens, lipsticks, used tissues, sunglasses. There it is, my phone. I’d tossed it in with everything as usual. I look at the screen: it’s 4:34. It’s not possible, I tell myself, it’s just not possible. I slept, I’m sure of it. Not too long, half an hour, maybe forty minutes. The flight attendants come by to offer drinks. Would you like a drink, ma’am? No, I say. I don’t want anything to drink. Excuse me, do you know how long until we land? The flight attendant smiles. She’s taught to do so. She smiles at everyone, even if she’s nervous. Would she smile even if the airplane was plummeting down?
In about an hour, she replies. Excuse me, could you tell me what time it is now? Of course, it’s 4:34. So we’ll land at 5:34? More or less, she says, more or less at that time. She’s still smiling as she says more or less, more or less at that time.
I think about what I’ll do once we land in Amsterdam. I’ll collect my suitcase, which I hope will arrive quickly. I’ll step out for a quick smoke and think about how it’s always windy in Amsterdam. Then I’ll look at the train schedules and plan it so that I have time to smoke another cigarette before I have to go down to the platform. I’ll wait for the train to Utrecht, which will be a few minutes early, and I’ll finally be able to relax on those blue seats. At the Utrecht station, I’ll buy some sushi to go from Albert Heijn and take a taxi. The driver will say, Italian? Nice weather in Italy, huh? and he’ll laugh while I look out the window and am once again awed by the soft light and the outdoor seating despite the cold.
I look at my phone: it’s 4:34. There must be a problem, some sort of malfunction. I start to get nervous. What could it be? I look at my neighbor, he turns away without smiling. He can tell that I want to say something and doesn’t seem thrilled about it. Could I ask you what time it is? I say in my clunky French. My phone isn’t working, I insist. He snorts and says, It’s 4:34. Excuse me? He looks at me like he doesn’t understand and goes back to his book. It’s impossible, I tell him, in English this time. It’s not possible! He doesn’t reply, pretends he can’t hear, keeps reading. Hours have gone by, I tell him. Hours. He now seems slightly uncomfortable. Excuse me, he replies in French, can’t you see I’m reading?
I don’t feel well. I feel stuck over here by the window. The aisle seat is free—why doesn’t this asshole move over there? I need to get some air, all of a sudden I need to get some air. I need to move, walk. I think of all the possible explanations. There has to be an explanation, surely there has to be one, I’ll laugh once I’m on the train and tell everyone about it. Even James will laugh about it. But for now I need to get some air—move, you French fucker, I need to get some air, I can’t breathe. I go to the bathroom, not because I need to but because at least I’m doing something. I walk down the hall. The other passengers seem calm. A mom breastfeeds her baby. A couple kisses. An elegantly dressed woman snores with her mouth open. I reach the bathroom. I don’t remember it being this small. There’s barely space for—I look at my watch. It’s 4:34. Someone opens the bathroom door, I forgot to lock it. It’s 4:34. 4:34. 4:34. Impossible.
I step out. Excuse me, I say, waving down the flight attendant. Could you tell me how long until we land? She smiles. An hour, she answers. I can’t believe that, I tell her. She looks at me, and for a moment she stops smiling. I can assure you that’s right, she replies. There must be some malfunction, I tell her. What kind of malfunction, ma’am? The clocks on board aren’t working. They aren’t working? No, I’d say they aren’t working at all. Look, ma’am, mine is working perfectly. It’s 4:34, she tells me, showing me her wrist. I try to stay calm, but I’m starting to tremble and sweat and feel like a stranger, everything around me is strange. This happens to me every so often and now I need to take a Xanax, take a Xanax and go to sleep. Nothing else to do whenever this happens except take a Xanax and wake up the next day feeling a little groggy but like myself again—I’ll be myself again, and the world will no longer feel frightening and strange.
Are you feeling okay, ma’am? No, I don’t feel okay. Follow me, I’ll take you back to your seat. We’ll be landing in an hour. That’s not true, stop mocking me, the clocks are broken, the clocks are…
Ma’am, I need to take you to your seat.
Ma’am, for safety reasons I need to accompany you to your seat.
Ma’am, you must stay seated with your seat belt fastened if possible.
Listen, I tell my neighbor, but he’s wearing headphones and pretends not to hear me. I gesture at him to ask him to take them off. He looks up. What’s the matter? he asks. We’re circling around, I tell him. What do you mean circling around? I mean that we should have landed awhile ago. He looks at his phone. No, he says. It’s 4:34. There’s at least an hour left. It’s not 4:34, I tell him. It isn’t 4:34 at all, the clocks aren’t working. I slept for half an hour at least and it’s 4:34. I went to the bathroom, it’s 4:34. It’s not possible. Listen, he says, I get it, but you need to calm down, otherwise I’ll ask to switch seats. Good, I tell him, switch seats, pretend nothing is happening. After all, what do you care about dying? What do you care about…
Ma’am, unfortunately I need to inform you that we’ve received some complaints.
What complaints?
Your behavior on board is putting everyone’s safety at risk.
What behavior?
It’s the third time a passenger has had to ask to switch seats…on such a short flight, no less.
Well, it’s not like it’s my fault you’re changing the clocks!
Ma’am, please calm down, I beg you, otherwise when we land…
What?
You understand that if you go on like this we’ll be forced to…
All right.
I’m very sorry, but there are rules we need to follow.
I understand, okay.
It’s for your safety, too.
Of course. I understand.
The airplane circles around. I’m still here. I don’t know how much time has passed. I look at myself in the mirror I always carry in my purse. My hair is gray, my face wrinkled.
It’s 4:34. 4:34. 4:34.
We’ll be landing in an hour.
Translator’s Note:
The twenty-one stories in Giulia Sara Miori’s debut short story collection Neroconfetto (Racconti Edizioni, 2021) all feature female protagonists and explore the strange, the macabre, and the lengths that our obsessions, fears, and compulsions can drive us to. As her protagonists deal with common emotions like jealousy, desire, and fear in what are often extreme situations, Miori explores how these women and their bodies are perceived by the world around them.
Like many of the stories in the collection, “The Airplane” blurs the lines between what is and isn’t real to create a portrayal of anxiety that is unsettling, surreal, and intense. Miori’s prose and the tightly controlled, confined environment of the airplane work together to heighten the protagonist’s loss of control over her own mind and body. By putting most of the focus on the interiority of her characters, Miori’s stories are able to capture the uncanniness in our everyday lives and shine a light on the thoughts and emotions that we often try to keep in the dark.
Isabella Corletto was born in Guatemala, graduated from Wesleyan University, and is pursuing a literary translation MA at the University of Rochester. She translated Amalia Andrade’s Things You Think About When You Bite Your Nails (Penguin Books, 2020) and has published translations in Latin American Literature Today and ESP Cultural Magazine.
Giulia Sara Miori was born in Sicily, grew up in Trento, and obtained a literature degree in Milan. She lives in the Netherlands. She was a finalist for the Oblique 8×8 contest and her work has appeared in Nazione Indiana, Altri animali, Narrandom, and L’indiscreto. Neroconfetto (Raconti Edizioni, 2021) is her debut.
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