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English to Portuguese: Our Secret General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English She let herself be caressed, drops of sweat in the small of her back, her body exuding the scent of burnt sugar, silent, as if she divined that a single sound could nudge its way into memory and destroy everything, reducing to dust this instant in which he was a person like any other, a casual lover she had met that morning, another man without a past attracted to her wheat-colored hair, her freckled skin, the jangle of her gypsy bracelets, just a man who had spoken to her in the street and begun to walk with her, aimlessly, commenting on the weather and the traffic, watching the crowd, with the slightly forced confidence of her countrymen in this foreign land, a man without sorrow on anger, without guilt, pure as ice, who merely wanted to spend the day with her, wandering through bookstores and parks, drinking coffee, celebrating the chance of having met, talking of old nostalgias, of how life had been when both were growing up in the same city, in the same barrio, when they were fourteen, you remember, winters of shoes soggy from frost, and paraffin stoves, summers of peach trees, there in the now forbidden country. Perhaps she was feeling a little lonely, or this seems an opportunity to make love without complications, but, for whatever reason, at the end of the day, when they had run out of pretexts to walk any longer, she had taken his hand and led him to her house. She shared with other exiles a sordid apartment in a yellow building at the end of an alley filled with garbage cans. Her room was tiny: a mattress on the floor covered with a striped blanket, bookshelves improvised from boards stacked on two rows of bricks, books, posters, clothing on a chair, a suitcase in the corner. She had removed her clothes without preamble, with the attitude of a little girl eager to please. He tried to make love to her. He stroked her body patiently, slipping over her hills and valleys, discovering her secret routes, kneading her, soft clay upon the sheets until she yielded, and opened to him. Then he retreated, mute, reserved. She gathered herself, and sought him, her head on his belly, her face hidden, as if constrained by modesty, as she fondled him, licked him, spurred him. He tried to lose himself, he closed his eyes and for a while let her do as she was doing, until he was defeated by sadness, or shame, and pushed her away. They lighted another cigarette. There was no complicity now; the urgent anticipation that had united them during the day was lost, and all that was left were two vulnerable people lying on a mattress, without memory, floating in the terrible vacuum of unspoken words. When they had met that morning they had had no extraordinary expectations, they had no particular plan, only companionship, and a little pleasure, that was all, but at the hour of their coming together, they had been engulfed by melancholy. We’re tired, she smiled, seeking excuses for the desolation that had settled over them. In a last attempt to buy time, he took her face in his hands and kissed her eyelids. They lay down side by side, holding hands, and talked about their lives in this country where they had met by chance, a green and generous land in which, nevertheless, they would forever be foreigners. He thought of putting on his clothes and saying goodbye before the tarantula of his nightmares poisoned the air, but she looked so young and defenseless, and he wanted to be her friend. Her friend, he thought, not her lover; her friend, to share quiet moments, without demands or commitments; her friend, someone to be with, to help ward off fear. He did not leave, or let go of her hand. A warm, tender feeling, and enormous compassion for himself and for her, made his eyes sting. The curtain puffed out like a sail, and she got up to close the window, thinking that darkness would help them recapture their desire to be together, to make love. But darkness was not good, he needed the rectangle of light from the street because, without it, he felt trapped again in the abyss of the timeless ninety centimeters of his cell, fermenting in his own excrement, delirious. Leave the curtain open, I want to look at you, he lied, because he did not dare confide his night terrors to her, the wracking thirst, the bandage pressing upon his head like a crown of nails, the vision of caverns, the assault of so many ghosts. He could not talk to her about that, because one thing leads to another, and he would end up saying things that had never been spoken. She returned to the mattress, stroked him absently, ran her fingers over the small lines, exploring them. Don’t worry, it’s nothing contagious, they’re just scars, he laughed, almost with an ob. The girl perceived his anguish and stopped, the gesture suspended, alert. At that moment he should have told her that this was not the beginning of a new love, not even of a passing affair, it was merely an instant of truce, a brief moment of innocence, and soon, when she fell asleep, he would go; he should have told her that there was no future for them, no secret gestures, that they would not stroll hand in hand through the streets again, nor share lover’s games, but he could not speak, his voice was buried somewhere in his gut, like a claw. He knew he was sinking. He tried to cling to the reality that was slipping away from him, to anchor his mind on anything, on the jumble of clothing on the chair, on the books piled on the floor, on the poster of Chile on the wall, on the coolness of this Caribbean night, on the distant street noises, he tried to concentrate on this body that had been offered him, think only of the girl’s luxuriant hair, the caramel scent of her skin. he begged her voicelessly to help him save those seconds, while she observed him from the far edge of the bed, sitting cross-legged like a fakir, her pale breasts and the eye of her navel also observing him, registering his trembling, the chattering of his teeth, his moan. He thought he could hear the silence growing within him; he knew that he was coming apart, as he had so often before, and he gave up the struggle, releasing his last hold on the present, letting himself plunge down the endless precipice. He felt the crusted straps on his ankles and wrists, the brutal charge, the torn tendons, the insulting voices demanding names, the unforgettable screams of Ana, tortured beside him, and of the others, hanging by their arms in the courtyard.
What’s the matter? For God’s sake, what’s wrong? Ana’s voice was asking from far away. No, Ana was still bogged in the quicksands to the south. He thought he could make out a naked girl, shaking him and calling his name, but he could not get free of the shadows with their snaking whips and rippling flags. Hunched over, he tried to control the nausea. He began to weep for Ana and for all the others. What is it, what’s the matter? Again the girl, calling him from somewhere. Nothing! Hold me!, he begged, and she moved toward him timidly, and took him in her arms, lulled him like a baby, kissed his forehead, said, Go ahead, cry, cry all you want; he laid him flat on his back on the mattress and then, crucified, stretched out upon him.
For a thousand years they lay like that, together, until slowly the hallucinations faded and he returned to the room to find himself alive in spite of everything, breathing, pulsing, the girl’s weight on his body, her head resting on his chest, her arms and legs atop his: two frightened orphans. And that moment, as if she knew everything, she said to him, Fear is stronger than desire, love or hatred or guilt or rage, stronger than loyalty. Fear is all-consuming…, and he felt her tears rolling down his neck. Everything stopped: she had touched his most deeply hidden wound. He had a presentiment that she was not just a girl willing to make love for the sake of pity but that she knew the thing that crouched beyond the silence, beyond absolute solitude, beyond the sealed box where he had hidden from the Colonel and his own treachery, beyond the memory of Ana Díaz and the other betrayed compañeros being led in one by one with their eyes blindfolded. How could she know all that?
She sat up. As she groped for the switch, her slender arm was silhouetted against the pale haze of the window. She turned on the light and, one by one, removed her metal bracelets, dropping them noiselessly on the mattress. Her hair was half-covering her face when she held out her hands to him. White scars circled her wrists, too. For a timeless instant, he stared at them, unmoving, until he understood everything, love, and saw her strapped to the electric grid and then they could embrace, and weep, hungry for pacts and confidences, for forbidden words, for promises of tomorrow, shared, finally, the most hidden secret.
Translation - Portuguese Ela se deixou acariciar, quieta, gotas de suor na cintura, o corpo exalando cheiro de caramelo, silencioso, como se soubesse que um único ruído poderia incluir-se na memória e arriscar estragá-la, tornar pó este instante em que era uma pessoa como qualquer outra, um amante casual que conheceu pela manhã, outro homem sem história atraído por seu cabelo cor de trigo, sua pele sardenta, ou pelo som das pulseiras de cigana, outro que a abordou na rua e andou com ela sem rumo, conversando sobre o clima ou trânsito e observando a multidão, com uma confiança um pouco forçada de compatriotas em terras estranhas; um homem sem tristezas, nem rancores, nem culpas, límpido como cristal, que desejava apenas passar o dia com ela andando por livrarias e parques, tomando café, celebrando o azar de terem se conhecido, falando de antigas nostalgias, de como era a vida quando ambos cresciam na mesma cidade, no mesmo bairro, de quando tinham catorze anos, você lembra, dos invernos de sapatos molhados pela geada, os aquecedores a querosene, os verões de pêssegos, ali no país proibido. Talvez se sentia um pouco sozinha, ou parecia uma oportunidade de fazer amor sem perguntas e por isso, no final da tarde, quando já não havia mais argumentos para continuar caminhando, ela pegou-o pela mão e o levou à sua casa. Dividia com os outros exilados um apartamento sórdido, em um prédio amarelo no final de uma rua sem saída cheia de latas de lixo. Seu quarto era pequeno: tinha um colchão no chão coberto com uma manta listrada, prateleiras improvisadas feitas com uma madeira apoiada em duas pilhas de tijolos, livros, pôsteres, roupas numa cadeira, uma mala no canto. Ela se despiu sem introduções, com atitude de menina complacente. Ele tratou de amá-la. Percorreu-a com paciência, deslizando por cada serra e curva de seu corpo, descobrindo suas estradas, tocando-a, uma argila suave sobre os lençóis até que ela se entregou, aberta. E ele recuou, reservado e mudo. Ela se voltou para buscá-lo, com a cabeça no ventre dele, escondendo o rosto, como se envergonhada pela modéstia, enquanto o apalpava, lambia, atingia. Ele quis abandonar-se com os olhos fechados e a deixou fazendo o que fazia, até que foi derrotado pela tristeza, ou vergonha, e precisou afastá-la. Acenderam outro cigarro, já não havia mais cumplicidade, havia-se perdido a antecipação urgente que os uniu durante o dia, e só sobraram sobre a cama duas criaturas desvalidas, sem memória, flutuando no terrível vazio de tantas palavras não ditas. Ao se conhecerem pela manhã, não planejaram nada extraordinário, não haviam pretendido muito, apenas companhia e um pouco de prazer, nada mais, mas na hora do encontro foram vencidos pela melancolia. Estamos cansados, ela sorriu, pedindo desculpas pela tristeza instalada entre os dois. Numa última tentativa de ganhar tempo, ele tomou o rosto da mulher entre as mãos e beijou suas pálpebras. Deitaram-se lado a lado, de mãos dadas, e conversaram sobre suas vidas nesse país onde se encontraram por acaso, um lugar verde e generoso em que sempre serão estrangeiros. Ele pensou em se vestir e dizer adeus, antes que a tarântula de seus pesadelos envenenasse o ar, mas ela parecia tão jovem e vulnerável, e quis ser seu amigo. Amigo, pensou, não namorado, amigo para compartilhar momentos de sossego, sem exigências nem compromissos, amigo para estar junto e afastar o medo. Ele não foi embora e nem soltou sua mão. Um sentimento quente e suave, uma imensa compaixão por si mesmo e por ela fez seus olhos arderem. A cortina levantou com o vento e ela se levantou para fechá-la, pensando que a escuridão poderia ajudá-los a recuperar a vontade de estar juntos, de fazer amor. Mas não foi assim, ele precisava daquele retângulo de luz da rua para não se sentir novamente preso no abismo eterno de noventa centímetros da cela, fermentando em seus próprios excrementos, demente. Deixe a cortina aberta, quero te ver, ele mentiu, porque não se atreveu a confidenciar seus terrores noturnos, de quando o privavam de beber água, a venda apertada na cabeça, como tantos fantasmas. Não podia falar sobre isso, pois uma coisa leva a outra e acaba-se dizendo o que nunca foi dito. Ela voltou para a cama, o acariciou sem vontade, passou os dedos por cima das pequenas marcas, explorando-as. Não se preocupe, não é nada contagioso, são só cicatrizes, ele riu, quase que em um soluço. A moça percebeu o tom de angústia e parou, o gesto suspenso, alerta. Naquele momento, ele deveria ter dito que aquilo não era o começo de um novo amor, nem sequer uma paixão fugaz, era apenas um instante de trégua, um breve minuto de inocência, e que em pouco tempo, quando ela adormecesse, ele partiria; deveria ter dito que não havia futuro para eles, nem chamadas secretas, não andariam juntos de mãos dadas pela rua novamente, não compartilhariam jogos românticos, mas ele não conseguiu dizer nada, sua voz ficou presa na barriga, como uma garra. Sabia que estava afundando. Tentou se agarrar à realidade que lhe escapava, ancorar sua mente em qualquer coisa, na roupa bagunçada sobre a cadeira, na pilha de livros no chão, no poster do Chile preso na parede, na brisa fresca da noite caribenha, nos ruídos distantes vindos da rua; tentou se concentrar naquele corpo que foi oferecido a ele, no cabelo dela, no cheiro doce que exalava. Suplicou sem voz que, por favor, ajudasse-o a salvar esses segundos, enquanto ela o observava do canto oposto da cama, sentada como um fakir, com os seios pálidos e o umbigo de frente para ele, registrando seu tremor, o bater de seus dentes, os gemidos. O homem observou o silêncio crescer, sabia que sua alma estava se quebrando como tanto ocorrera antes, e deixou de lutar contra, soltando o presente, deixando-se cair por um precipício interminável. Sentiu as correntes presas nos tornozelos e nos pulsos, a descarga brutal, os tendões quebrados, as vozes xingando, exigindo nomes, os gritos inesquecíveis de Ana, torturada ao lado dele e dos outros, todos pendurados pelos braços no pátio. ‘O que aconteceu, meu Deus, o que há de errado?’. A voz de Ana, longe, perguntou. Não, Ana ainda está presa nos pântanos ao sul. Percebeu uma desconhecida nua sacudindo seus ombros chamando seu nome, mas não conseguiu escapar das sombras que agitavam chicotes e bandeiras. Encolhido, tentou controlar a náusea. Começou a chorar por Ana e pelos outros. ‘Você está bem?’, outra vez a moça chamando-o de algum lugar. Nada, só me abrace! ele implorou, e ela se aproximou tímida e o envolveu em seus braços, embalou-o como um bebê, beijou sua testa, disse chore, chore, deitou-o de costas e se esticou sobre ele, como se crucificada. Permaneceram assim por muito tempo, até que lentamente as alucinações acabaram e ele retornou ao quarto, descobrindo-se vivo apesar de tudo, respirando, pulsando, o peso dela sobre seu corpo, a cabeça em seu peito, dois órfãos assustados. E naquele momento, como se ela soubesse tudo, ela lhe disse que o medo é mais forte que o desejo, mais forte que o amor, que o ódio, que a culpa e a raiva, mais forte que a lealdade. O medo é algo que te consome, concluiu, e ele sentiu as lágrimas escorrendo pelo pescoço. Tudo parou: ela havia tocado na ferida mais secreta. Pressentiu que ela não era apenas uma moça disposta a fazer amor por pena, que ela conhecia aquilo que se encontrava agachado depois do silêncio, da solidão completa, mais escondido do que a caixa selada onde ele se escondeu do Coronel e de sua própria traição, mais esquecido que a memória de Ana Díaz e dos outros companheiros traídos. Como ela pode saber disso tudo? Ela se levantou. Seu braço magro cortou a luz clara da janela, buscando pelo interruptor. Acendeu a luz e, uma por uma, retirou as pulseiras de metal, que caíram em silencio sobre a cama. O cabelo cobria metade do rosto quando ela estendeu as mãos para ele. Haviam cicatrizes em seus pulsos também. Por um momento que parecida eterno, ele as observou, imóvel, até compreender tudo, amor, e vê-la amarrada às correntes de choque, e então puderam se abraçar e chorar, famintos por pactos e confidências, palavras proibidas, promessas do amanhã, compartilhando, enfim, o segredo mais escondido.
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Years of experience: 4. Registered at ProZ.com: Feb 2016.
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