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Sample translations submitted: 3
Spanish to English: A short story by Marquez General field: Art/Literary
Source text - Spanish Espantos de agosto
Llegamos a Arezzo un poco antes del medio día, y perdimos más de dos horas buscando el castillo renacentista que el escritor venezolano Miguel Otero Silva había comprado en aquel recodo idílico de la campiña toscana. Era un domingo de principios de agosto, ardiente y bullicioso, y no era fácil encontrar a alguien que supiera algo en las calles abarrotadas de turistas. Al cabo de muchas tentativas inútiles volvimos al automóvil, abandonamos la ciudad por un sendero de cipreses sin indicaciones viales, y una vieja pastora de gansos nos indicó con precisión dónde estaba el castillo. Antes de despedirse nos preguntó si pensábamos dormir allí, y le contestamos, como lo teníamos previsto, que sólo íbamos a almorzar.
– Menos mal – dijo ella – porque en esa casa espantan.
Mi esposa y yo, que no creemos en aparecidos de1 medio día, nos burlamos de su credulidad. Pero nuestros dos hijos, de nueve y siete años, se pusieron dichosos con la idea de conocer un fantasma de cuerpo presente.
Miguel Otero Silva, que además de buen escritor era un anfitrión espléndido y un comedor refinado, nos esperaba con un almuerzo de nunca olvidar. Como se nos había hecho tarde no tuvimos tiempo de conocer el interior del castillo antes de sentarnos a la mesa, pero su aspecto desde fuera no tenía nada de pavoroso, y cualquier inquietud se disipaba con la visión completa de la ciudad desde la terraza florida donde estábamos almorzando. Era difícil creer que en aquella colina de casas encaramadas, donde apenas cabían noventa mil personas, hubieran nacido tantos hombres de genio perdurable. Sin embargo, Miguel Otero Silva nos dijo con su humor caribe que ninguno de tantos era el más insigne de Arezzo.
– El más grande – sentenció – fue Ludovico.
Así, sin apellidos: Ludovico, el gran señor de las artes y de la guerra, que había construido aquel castillo de su desgracia, y de quien Miguel nos habló durante todo el almuerzo. Nos habló de su poder inmenso, de su amor contrariado y de su muerte espantosa. Nos contó cómo fue que en un instante de locura del corazón había apuñalado a su dama en el lecho donde acababan de amarse, y luego azuzó contra sí mismo a sus feroces perros de guerra que lo despedazaron a dentelladas. Nos aseguró, muy en serio, que a partir de la media noche el espectro de Ludovico deambulaba por la casa en tinieblas tratando de conseguir el sosiego en su purgatorio de amor.
El castillo, en realidad, era inmenso y sombrío. Pero a pleno día, con el estómago lleno y el corazón contento, el relato de Miguel no podía parecer sino una broma como tantas otras suyas para entretener a sus invitados. Los ochenta y dos cuartos que recorrimos sin asombro después de la siesta, habían padecido toda clase de mudanzas de sus dueños sucesivos. Miguel había restaurado por completo la planta baja y se había hecho construir un dormitorio moderno con suelos de mármol e instalaciones para sauna y cultura física, y la terraza de flores intensas donde habíamos almorzado. La segunda planta, que había sido la más usada en el curso de los siglos, era una sucesión de cuartos sin ningún carácter, con muebles de diferentes épocas abandonados a su suerte. Pero en la última se conservaba una habitación intacta por donde el tiempo se había olvidado de pasar. Era el dormitorio de Ludovico.
Fue un instante mágico. Allí estaba la cama de cortinas bordadas con hilos de oro, y el sobrecama de prodigios de pasamanería todavía acartonado por la sangre seca de la amante sacrificada. Estaba la chimenea con las cenizas heladas y el último leño convertido en piedra, el armario con sus armas bien cebadas, y el retrato al óleo del caballero pensativo en un marco de oro, pintado por alguno de los maestros florentinos que no tuvieron la fortuna de sobrevivir a su tiempo. Sin embargo, lo que más me impresionó fue el olor de fresas recientes que permanecía estancado sin explicación posible en el ámbito del dormitorio.
Los días del verano son largos y parsimoniosos en la Toscana, y el horizonte se mantiene en su sitio hasta las nueve de la noche. Cuando terminamos de conocer el castillo eran más de las cinco, pero Miguel insistió en llevarnos a ver los frescos de Piero della Francesca en la Iglesia de San Francisco, luego nos tomamos un café bien conversado bajo las pérgolas de la plaza, y cuando regresamos para recoger las maletas encontramos la cena servida. De modo que nos quedamos a cenar.
Mientras lo hacíamos, bajo un cielo malva con una sola estrella, los niños prendieron unas antorchas en la cocina, y se fueron a explorar las tinieblas en los pisos altos. Desde la mesa oíamos sus galopes de caballos cerreros por las escaleras, los lamentos de las puertas, los gritos felices llamando a Ludovico en los cuartos tenebrosos. Fue a ellos a quienes se les ocurrió la mala idea de quedarnos a dormir. Miguel Otero Silva los apoyó encantado, y nosotros no tuvimos el valor civil de decirles que no.
Al contrario de lo que yo temía, dormimos muy bien, mi esposa y yo en un dormitorio de la planta baja y mis hijos en el cuarto contiguo. Ambos habían sido modernizados y no tenían nada de tenebrosos. Mientras trataba de conseguir el sueño conté los doce toques insomnes del reloj de péndulo de la sala, y me acordé de la advertencia pavorosa de la pastora de gansos. Pero estábamos tan cansados que nos dormimos muy pronto, en un sueño denso y continuo, y desperté después de las siete con un sol espléndido entre las enredaderas de la ventana. A mi lado, mi esposa navegaba en el más apacible de los inocentes. Qué tontería – me dije –, que alguien siga creyendo en fantasmas por estos tiempos. Sólo entonces me estremeció el olor de fresas recién cortadas, y vi la chimenea con las cenizas frías y el último leño convertido en piedra, y el retrato del caballero triste que nos miraba desde tres siglos antes en el marco de oro. Pues no estábamos en la alcoba de la planta baja donde nos habíamos acostado la noche anterior, sino en el dormitorio de Ludovico, bajo la cornisa y las cortinas polvorientas y las sábanas empapadas de sangre todavía caliente de su cama maldita.
Por Gabriel García Márquez
Translation - English Haunted August
We reached Arezzo a little before mid-day, and we spent more than two hours searching the renaissance castle that the Venezuelan writer, Miguel Otero Silva had bought in that idyllic bend in the countryside of Toscana. It was a Sunday during the first days of August, hot and noisy, and it was not easy to find someone who knew something about it, in the street crowded with tourists. After many fruitless attempts we returned to our vehicle; we left the city, following a path through Cyprus trees, which did not have any road signs. An old shepherdess with a flock of geese indicated precisely where the castle lay. Before we moved on, she asked us if we were thinking of spending the night there. We replied that as per our plan, we were only planning to lunch there.
“Well,” she said, “that house is haunted.”
My spouse and me, we did not believe in the mid-day spirits, and we laughed at her credulity. However, our two children aged nine and seven, were excited about the possibility of meeting a ghost in person.
Miguel Otero Silva, who apart from being a good writer, was also a splendid host. In his refined dining room, an exceptional meal awaited us, one which can never be forgotten. Since it was already quite late, we did not have time to familiarize ourselves with the interiors of the castle before sitting down at the table, but the castle did not seem to be creepy from any aspect. Any restlessness we may have felt quickly dissipated with the view of the entire city, we got from the flowery terrace where we were dining. It was difficult to believe that in that colony of perched houses, sheltering hardly ninety thousand people had been born so many people of such genius. However, Miguel Otero Silva told us in his own Caribbean humour that none of them were among the most distinguished of Arezzo.
“The greatest of them all,” he ruled, “was Ludovico.”
Just like that, without a surname – Ludovico, the lord of art and war, had built that castle of his misfortune, and Miguel talked about him throughout the mealtime. He told us of his immense power, of his thwarted love and his tragic death. He narrated to us how in an instance of despair he had stabbed his dame in the bed where they had kindled their love. Later, he set his ferocious war dogs upon himself to be shred into pieces by their teeth. He assured us, in all earnestness, that after midnight the ghost of Ludovico wandered about the house in obscurity, trying to gain some respite in his purgatory of love.
The castle, in reality, was immense and dark. But in broad daylight, with a full stomach and a content heart, Miguel’s story could not seem anything but a joke – just like one of the countless ones he told to entertain his guests. After our siesta, the eighty two rooms that we toured, without doubt had suffered the changes brought about by each successive proprietor. Miguel had completely restored the lower storey, and had a modern bedroom constructed with marble floors and facilities for sauna and physical exercise, and the terrace of flowers where we had lunched. The second storey, which had been used the most during the course of centuries, was just a succession of rooms without any character whatsoever. They contained furniture from different ages; left abandoned each to its own fate. At the end, one room was conserved intact with respect to the time which had forgotten to pass on from there. It was the bedroom of Ludovico.
It was a moment of magic. There lay the curtained bed, bordered with threads of gold, and the bedspread with its wonderful trimmings still stiff with the dried blood of the sacrificed lover. There was a fireplace where the ashes had become frozen and the last log had turned to stone, a cabinet well stacked with weapons, and an oil portrait in a golden frame, of the gentleman in a pensive mood. It was painted by one of those Florentine masters who were not fortunate to outlive their age. However, what impressed me the most was the smell of fresh strawberries that lingered in the room, the cause of which it was not possible to explain.
During summer the days are long and tardy in Toscana, and the horizon is clearly visible till nine o’ clock at night. When we finished our tour of the castle it was already well over five o’ clock, but Miguel insisted in taking us to see the frescos of Piero della Francesca in the Church of San Francisco. Later we would sip some coffee while enjoying some good conversation under pergolas in the square, and when we would return to collect our bags, we would find the dinner served on the table. In other words we were to have our dinner there.
While we sat down, under the purple sky with its solitary star, lit a lamp in the kitchen and went to explore the shadows of the floors above. From the table we could hear their horse like gallops along the staircase, the creaking of doors, and their loud and excited voices calling Ludovico in those dark, shadowy rooms. It was them who came up with the bad idea of staying there the night. Miguel Otero Silva was delighted and supported their idea, and we did not have the civil courage to refuse.
In contrast to what I feared, we slept well, my wife and me in a bedroom in the lower storey and our children in the adjoining room. Both of them had been modernized and there was nothing spooking about them. While I was trying to fall asleep at night, I heard the clock in the living room strike twelve, and I immediately remembered the dreadful warning of the shepherdess. But we were so tired that we fell asleep pretty soon. It was a sleep very deep and continuous, and I woke up well after seven o’ clock with the sun shining brightly through the window enlaced with creepers. At my side, my wife moved gently in her sleep. “What a stupidity,” I told myself, “that people continue to believe in ghosts even in this age.” Then, the smell of fresh strawberries made me shudder, and I saw the fireplace full of frosted ash and the last log of wood in it turned to stone, and the portrait of the sad gentleman that looked at us from three centuries ago, from its frame of gold. Well, we were not in the bedchamber of the lower storey where we had gone to sleep the previous night. Instead, we were in Ludovico’s bedroom, under the dusty curtains of his bed, and the sheets were soaked in blood still warm on his cursed bed.
By Gabriel García Márquez
Spanish to English: A text from the internet General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Journalism
Source text - Spanish El coleccionista de sonrisas
El 26 de agosto de 1990, en la segunda página del ‘The New York Times’, se publicó la fotografía de un atentado producido durante la invasión de Irak a Kuwait. A pocos metros de los cadáveres de un par de civiles, una niña miraba lo que parecía ser una muñeca, mientras que el artículo correspondiente mencionaba a 18 kuwaitíes exiliados, que recordaban a sus más de 500 compatriotas muertos. Y si bien existía una relación entre el texto y la imagen, el rostro de la niña hablaba de otra historia, que no tenía nada que ver con los personajes retratados. Era como si ella hubiese acabado de sonreír hacía un segundo.
Albert O’remor no era corresponsal de guerra, pero a su representante le fue sencillo contactar con el ‘Times’ y venderle los derechos de la fotografía, porque O’remor gozaba de cierto prestigio en el ámbito artístico neoyorquino. Aunque prestigio no es el término más adecuado para definir su posición en ese gremio. Prácticamente no se hablaba de la calidad de su trabajo, sino del tema recurrente que siempre abordó en sus obras, derivando las conversaciones hacia los posibles orígenes de su obsesión, donde las opiniones eran encontradas e iban de lo dramático a lo sublime, pasando incluso por la burla. En lo que sí estaban todos de acuerdo era en que su ‘enfermedad’ era degenerativa. Si no fuese así, por qué otra razón viajó a Kuwait a retratar a esa niña, por qué necesitaba situaciones cada vez más dolorosas para capturar una sonrisa.
Albert O’remor, de madre danesa y padre irlandés, nació en Baltimore, Estados Unidos, en 1958. Ya a sus cuatro años, Albert comenzó a manifestar una especial atracción por las sonrisas ajenas y, con el tiempo, pasó a convertirse en una profunda fascinación, despertando un incontrolable deseo por coleccionarlas. En su octavo cumpleaños, le obsequiaron una ‘Instamatic 133 de Kodak’. Como era de suponer, al comienzo, cualquier sonrisa le valía, mas ese comienzo fue muy breve, porque el mismo día en el que le regalaron la cámara, agotó el carrete con los rostros de los invitados que posaron para él y no pudo ver las imágenes hasta tres semanas después, cuando consiguió ahorrar lo suficiente para revelar los negativos.
Tras esa primera experiencia, se dedicó a sorprender a sus familiares con la intención de obtener sonrisas espontáneas. Los flashes provenían de debajo de una cama, del asiento posterior del coche, de entre las ramas, del armario y de cuanto lugar le sirviese para su cometido. Una vez completado su décimo álbum, volvió a cuestionarse, optando por incluir a desconocidos. Así lo hizo durante más de una década.
A pesar de aparentar ser un dato irrelevante, antes de proseguir, me gustaría destacar una de las series que formó parte de este período, compuesta por las sonrisas de una hippie que mostraban las distintas variaciones de la expresión con respecto al tipo de droga que ella había consumido. Esta serie —no en ese momento, pero sí cuando reflexionó al respecto— ocasionó que O’remor hiciese una pausa prolongada. Los siguientes dos años no tomó ninguna fotografía, los empleó en clasificar las 16,478 que ya tenía. Fue consciente de que una sonrisa al despertar tenía distintos matices que una al acostarse, que la de su hermano menor era distinta cuando veía a su madre que cuando veía a su padre, que la de su abuelo variaba en el día y no con la edad, que una sonrisa no era más bella por el rostro sino por la sinceridad y que, sin excepción, todos teníamos la capacidad para mostrarla. En ese punto tuvo dos sensaciones. Su colección era bella; sin embargo, no era tan especial. Cualquiera podría tener una como la suya, simplemente era una cuestión de tiempo y dedicación. Se quedó en blanco tres años más.
En 1984, volvió a coger la cámara bajo la siguiente premisa: “Todos podemos sonreír, pero no todos somos iguales”. Se puso a fotografiar a personas famosas. Le duró una semana. Las revistas de un quiosco contenían más de las que él podría conseguir en toda su vida. Se sintió estúpido por haber planteado una premisa tan vulgar. Lanzó otra: “Todos podemos sonreír, pero a unos les cuesta más”. Con el ánimo renovado, retrató a mendigos, minusválidos, a payasos sin disfraz, soldados de guardia y a cuanto estereotipo se le cruzó por la mente. Se dio cuenta de que no era tanto un asunto de personas… y se atrevió a lanzar una tercera: “Todos podemos sonreír, pero hay momentos en que nos es casi imposible hacerlo, porque no nos nace o nos lo prohibimos”.
Albert pasaba las mañanas observando los entierros y, en las noches, hacía guardia en la sección de urgencias de los hospitales. Una que otra vez, para variar la rutina, se asomaba a los incendios y a otras desgracias ocasionales, conducta que fue muy criticada tanto por algunas instituciones sociales como por la mayoría de los artistas neoyorquinos. No obstante, O’ sostenía, de cara a sí mismo, que una sonrisa, en un momento de tragedia, evitaba que se destrozasen fibras emocionales profundas. Para valorar mejor su perspectiva, es necesario enfatizar que a él le deslumbraban las sonrisas y no las risas (ya sean con gracia o histéricas).
Unos meses antes de que Irak invadiera Kuwait, Albert O’remor se había instalado en Oriente Medio. Quería saber cómo eran las sonrisas de las personas que vivían en una tragedia constante. Sin duda, su fascinación lo colmó. Eso explica que el día en el que retrató a la niña del ‘Times’, cuando se produjo la explosión seguida de un tiroteo, en lugar de correr, le regaló la muñeca a la niña, para fotografiarla. En medio de esa sesión, una bala lo alcanzó. La pequeña dejó la muñeca y cogió la cámara.
Tras su muerte, se realizó la primera exposición sobre su trabajo. La galería Leo Castelli presentó la “Smile’s Collection”, incluyendo la foto que tomó la niña kuwaití, la única en la que aparecía Albert O’remor.
por Rafael R. Valcárcel
Translation - English The Collector of Smiles
On the 26th of August, 1990, the New York Times published in its second page a photograph of an attack during the invasion of Kuwait by Iraq. A few metres from the corpses of some civilians, was a little girl who was looking at what appeared to be a doll, while the corresponding article mentioned about eighteen Kuwaitis exiled who gave accounts of the death of more than five hundred of their compatriots. Even though there was a relation between the image and its corresponding text, the girl’s face spoke of a different story, that which had nothing to do with the people portrayed. It was as if she had just stopped smiling a second ago.
Albert O’remor was not a war correspondent, but it was a simple affair for his agent to contact The Times’ and sell them the rights to the photo. It was simple because O’remor enjoyed a certain prestige in the artistic ambit of New York; though prestige is not the most adequate term to define his position in such a line of work. Practically, it was not the quality of his work that was talked about, but the recurrent topic that was always addressed in his works, deriving all conversation towards his obsession, where opinions were found and they went from dramatic to sublime, and sometimes even a joke. If they all agreed upon something, it was about his illness being degenerative. If it were not for this, for what other reason would he travel to Kuwait to capture the image of the little girl? Why else would he need a situation each time more painful than the last, in order to capture a smile?
Albert O’remor was born in Baltimore in the United States in 1958, of a Danish mother and Irish father. At the age of four, Albert began to show a special attraction towards the smiles of others. With time, it turned into a profound fascination, awakening in him an uncontrollable desire to collect them. On his eighth birthday, he received a “Kodak Instamatic 133” as a present. As you can guess, in the beginning, any smile would do. However, this beginning was very short, because the very day he got his camera, the reel ran out with the faces of the guests who posed for him. He could not see the photos until another three weeks, when he had managed to save enough money to develop the negatives.
After his first experience, he decided to surprise his folks in order to get smiles that were spontaneous. The flashes came from under a bed, the rear seat of a car, between branches of trees, the inside of a cupboard, and any place that would help him fulfil his task. Once he had finished his tenth album, he decided to take it another step ahead, now opting to include strangers. This way, he went on for more than a decade.
Even though it may seem irrelevant, before carrying on any further, I would like to highlight a series of photographs that formed a part of this period. It comprises of the smiles of a hippie who shows distinct variation in her expressions with respect to the type of drug she had consumed. This series – not now, but when it was reflected upon – may have induced O’remor to take a prolonged pause in between. The next two years he did not take any photographs; instead he used his time to classify the 16,478 photographs that he already had. He was conscious of the fact that on waking up, the nature of one’s smile was different from the one when someone was about to go to sleep. Similarly, his little brother’s smile was different when he saw his mother from the one he sported when he saw his father, and that the smile of his grandfather changed with respect to each day and not his age. A smile, he noticed, was beautiful not by its appearance but by its sincerity, and that everyone, without exception had the capability of showing it. Regarding this matter, he felt two things. His collection was beautiful; however, it was not something really very special. Anyone could have a collection just like his; it was only a question of time and dedication. For another three years he was at a loss for ideas.
In 1984, he went back to his camera, driven by a new premise: “We can all smile, but we are not all equal.” He began to photograph famous people. This lasted a week. The magazines at any kiosk contained more such pictures than what he could photograph in his entire life. He felt stupid for having believed in a premise so vulgar. Thus he launched a new one: “We can all smile, but to some it costs more.” With a renewed enthusiasm, he began to capture portraits of beggars, the disabled, of clowns without their costume, of soldiers on guard, and of any stereotype that happened to cross his mind. He realised that it was not so much a matter of people... and thus dared to launch a third premise: “We can all smile, but there are moments when it is almost impossible to do so, because it does not occur naturally or it is prohibited to do so.”
Albert used to pass his mornings observing burials, and during the nights he used to stand guard at the emergency section at hospitals. Every once in a while, in order to change the routine, he popped into events of a fire or such occasional mishaps, a conduct that was much criticised by certain social institutions and most of the New York artists. Nevertheless, O’ maintained in the face of it all, that a smile in a moment of tragedy, helped to prevent a deep emotional breakdown. In order to evaluate his perspective better, it is necessary to emphasise that he focussed his work on smiles and not laughter (be it graceful or hysteric).
A few months before Iraq was to invade Kuwait, Albert O’remor had set himself up in the Middle East. He wanted to know how the smiles of people managed to live through situations of constant tragedy. Without doubt, his fascination reached its climax. The day that he photographed the little girl from “Times,” when the explosion followed gunfire, instead of running, he gifted the doll to the child, in order to capture her portrait. In between this session a bullet hit it. The girl left the doll and grabbed the camera.
After his death, the first exhibition of his works took place. The gallery, Leo Castelli presented “Smile’s Collection.” It included the photo taken by the little Kuwaiti girl, the only one in which appears Albert O’remor himself.
By Rafael R. Valcárcel
Spanish to English: An excerpt General field: Art/Literary
Source text - Spanish Fragmentos de un padre
( Rafael R. Valcárcel )
Nací a diez minutos de un río y a tres horas del mar. Además, corría agua entre dulce y salada por mis mejillas. Y me gusta creer que esas lágrimas brotaban porque intuía que en breve me separaría de mi familia. Aunque lo lógico es que llorase como mera consecuencia de haber nacido; pero, insisto, me gusta creer.
En cuanto a la fecha, nací el 26 de agosto de 1970. Pasados cuatro meses, mi madre tuvo que desprenderse de su sexto hijo: yo. Como el agua no hacía prodigios con el abrigo —sólo multiplicaba la sopa—, me pusieron bajo la tutela de un pariente.
Carlos Valcárcel Morán era un cuarentón solitario que vivía lo saludablemente lejos de las urbes y su gente. En una de sus raras visitas a Arequipa, mis padres le pidieron que cuidase de mí. Me tomó en sus brazos, tanteó mi peso y me lanzó hacia arriba. Tres veces. Sin mueca de sonrisa ni nada semejante, les dijo: “Es posible que aprenda a volar”.
Para ello, elevó la realidad con cuentos… Fragmentos que ahora intento unir para reencontrarme en él, batiendo las alas hasta llegar a lo más profundo del pozo.
Translation - English Fragments of a Father
by Rafael R. Valcárcel
The place where I was born was ten minutes away from a river, and three hours from the sea. Besides, a mixture of salt and sweet water ran down my cheeks. I like to believe that those tears sprang out because of my intuition, that shortly, I would be separated from my family. Although it would be more logical to assume that my cry was simply that of a newborn, I insist in believing otherwise.
As regarding the date, I was born on the 26th of August, 1970. After four months had passed, my mother had to let go off her sixth child: me. Just as water cannot be used to construct houses – it can only be used to increase the amount of soup-, I was put under the guardianship of a relative.
Carlos Valcárcel Morán was a middle-aged bachelor who lived a very healthy life, away from the city and its inhabitants. In one of his rare visits to Arequipa, my parents asked him to look after me. He took me in his arms, checked how heavy I was, and threw me up in the air – three times. Without the appearance of a smile or anything similar to it, he told them, “It’s possible that he can learn to fly.”
In order to do that, he modified reality with stories…. Fragments that I am now trying to put together in order to rediscover myself in him, flapping my wings until I reach the deepest portion of the well.
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Other - Instituto Cervantes New Delhi
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Years of experience: 12. Registered at ProZ.com: Sep 2012.
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