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Spanish to English: Extract from "Musica", short story from 'Compañeras de Viaje' by Soledad Puértolas General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Spanish Durante aquellos años, fuimos propietarios de una sucesión de coches, a cual más quebradizo. En diferentes tramos del largo viaje a Galicia, aquellos coches se detenían, con una insultante falta de consideración sobre la posibilidad de que hubiera o no talleres de reparación cerca. O de que fuese domingo y estuvieran todos cerrados. Hubiéramos debido viajar siempre en días laborales, por el asunto de los talleres. Pero cada vez que emprendíamos el viaje, nos olvidábamos de la amenaza de la avería – bastantes cosas teníamos que resolver antes de ponernos en marcha – y nos lanzábamos a la carretera, casi siempre en domingo para evitar los camiones.
Un de los coches que más problemas nos dio fue un viejo Saab que había pertenecido al padre de mi marido. Era un coche muy bonito, marrón metalizado, que nunca funcionó del todo bien, era el típico coche del que se decía que había salido mal. Pero nos gustaba mucho, no sólo porque tenía una línea muy elegante, sino porque era grande y cómodo. Hasta el momento, habíamos tenido un Seat 800, un Diane y un Seat 127.
En el viaje que se destaca ahora en mi memoria, uno de los inevitables y larguísimos viajes con avería, viajábamos dos adultos – mi marido y yo – y tres niños, mis dos hijos, de dos y siete años, y un amigo del mayor. No llevábamos el remolque con el pequeño velero de mi marido. Que, junto con los perros, se incorporó a nuestro viaje, también con avería, del siguiente año, cuyo punto de destino fue el más lejano de todos – habíamos alquilado una casa al borde del arenal de Abelleira, junto a la ría de Muros –, y que fue no de los veranos más tranquilos y felices de aquella época. Pero en esta ocasión nos dirigíamos a la casa familiar.
El coche estaba abarrotado, lleno de maletas y bolsas, y yo no podía evitar pensar en nuestro parecido con la popular historieta de la última página del TBO, “La familia Ulises”, que tanta vergüenza ajena me había producido cada vez que mis ojos se topaban con ella, en aquellas remotas mañanas de domingo de mi infancia, cuando la lectura del TBO era un rito en el que pensaba, ilusionada, durante la interminable semana colegial. Al fin, el rito se cumplía, aun cuando yo todavía tenía que esperar un poco más, mientras me distraía con cuentos también comprados en el quiosco, después de misa, porque el TBO no llegaba a mis manos hasta que mi hermana no lo había leído de cabo a rabo. Los dos años que la separaban de mí le concedían, entre otros, el privilegio de ser ella la primera en leer el codiciado TBO. Yo esperaba, resignada, algo resentida, pero sabía que al fin el TBO sería enteramente mío, por mucho que mi hermana se demorara, quizá para hacerme rabiar. Pero la familia Ulises me producía un gran rechazo. Era absolutamente grotesca. Siempre andaban de un lado para otro, todos juntos, niños, mayores, ancianos, animales – el pavo de Navidad, una gallina que luego serviría para hacer caldo, un loro que alguien les había regalado o encasquetado a última hora…-, camino de quién sabe qué lugar, el pueblo del padre o de la madre. Se desplazaban en una pequeña camioneta que llenaban hasta el techo, sobre el que luego colocaban toda clase de bultos, atados con cuerdas variopintas. Parecía mentira que al fin cupieran todos en aquella traqueteante camioneta – más bien era como un autobús de los de entonces, pero en pequeño – que levantaba a su paso manifestaciones de burla. La familia Ulises, evidentemente, no era un modelo aceptable. He aquí que, al cabo de los años, yo estaba representando una de las escenas más recurrentes de aquellas historietas.
Como la mayoría de los niños de la época, mis hijos tenían pasión por la música. Sus gastos musicales no coincidían, porque pertenecían a generaciones distintas, por lo que surgían inevitables peleas para establecer turnos más o menos equitativos para sus casetes. Pero en aquel viaje el pequeño era aún muy pequeño y todo nos plegamos a los dictados musicales de mi hijo mayor, y, más aún, a los de su amigo, que sentía fervor por Simon y Garfunkel.
Parecía que, entre empujones, las migas de pan de los bocadillos, las salpicaduras pegajosas de la coca cola, la música machacona, combinado todo con la eterna pregunta, ¿Cuánto queda?, el viaje estaba resultando un éxito – habíamos atravesado ya Castilla –, cuando, en Verín, donde habíamos parado para tomar nosotros un café y los niños sus refrescos y sus tigretones y panteras rosas – aquellos espantosos bollos rellenos de crema de chocolate o de fresa a los que eran adictos –, el motor no quiso, después del breve descanso, volver a funcionar. Era una de las averías clásicas del Saab, por lo que no suponía una verdadera sorpresa, pero eso aún la hacía más fastidiosa, ¿cómo habíamos sido tan imprudentes?, ¡no hubiéramos debido parar!
Translation - English During those years we were owners of a succession of cars, each one more fragile than the last. In different stretches of the long journey to Galicia, those cars broke down, with an insulting lack of consideration for the possibility of whether or not there were any garages nearby. Or of the fact that it was Sunday and they were all closed. We should have always travelled on working days, with the garages in mind. But each time we embarked on a journey, we forgot about the threat of breakdown – we had a lot of things to sort out before we set off – and we hit the road, almost always on a Sunday to avoid the lorries.
One of the cars that gave us the most problems was an old Saab, which had belonged to my husband’s father. It was a very handsome car, metallic brown, which never worked entirely well: it was the typical car that you could say had gone wrong. But we really liked it, not just because it had a very elegant style, but also because it was large and comfortable. Up to that point, we had had a Seat 800, a Diane and a Seat 127.
In the journey that stands out in my memory, one of the inevitable and super long journeys with a breakdown, we were two adults – my husband and I – and three kids: my two sons, aged 2 and 7, and a friend of the eldest. We didn’t bring the trailer with my husband’s little sailing boat. That joined our trip the following year, along with the dogs, also with a breakdown, and whose destination was the furthest of all – we had rented a house on the edge of the beaches of Abelleira, next to the Muros estuary – and which was one of the calmest and happiest summers of that time. But on this occasion we headed for the family home.
The car was crammed, full of suitcases and bags, and I couldn’t help but think of our resemblance to the popular cartoon from the last page of TBO , “The Ulysses Family”, which made me cringe so much every time my eyes came across it, in those distant Sunday mornings of my childhood when the reading of TBO was a ritual that I thought about, excitedly1, during the never-ending school week. At the end the rite was fulfilled, even when I still had to wait a bit more (in the meantime I kept myself amused with stories also bought at the newsagents2, after mass) because TBO didn’t get to my hands until my sister had read it from cover to cover. The two years that separated us granted her, among other things, the privilege of being the first to read the coveted TBO. I waited, resigned, somewhat resentful, but as much as my sister delayed (perhaps to make me angry), I knew that in the end the TBO would be entirely mine.3 But the Ulysses family I hated to look at. They were absolutely ridiculous. They were always going from one place to another, all together:4 kids, adults, the elderly, animals – the Christmas turkey, a hen that would later be used for soup, a parrot that someone had given them or lumbered them with at the last minute… – on the way to who knows where, the town of the father or the mother maybe. They travelled in a small van which was filled to the roof, on which they then put all sorts of luggage, attached with multi-coloured ropes. It seemed unbelievable that in the end everyone fit into that rattling van – it was rather like a bus from back then, but smaller – which raised mockery in its wake. The Ulysses Family, evidently, was not an acceptable role model. Lo and behold, after all these years, I was representing one of the most recurring scenes of those cartoons.
Like most kids of the time, my sons had a passion for music. As they belong to different generations their music tastes didn’t coincide, so inevitable fights would arise to establish more or less fair turns for each of their cassette tapes. But in that trip the little one was still very young and we gave in to the musical orders of my eldest son, and even more so to those of his friend, who had a particular thing5 for Simon and Garfunkel.
It seemed that, between pushes and shoves, the breadcrumbs from the sandwiches, the sticky splashes of Coca-Cola, the tiresome music, all combined with the eternal question, “Are we there yet?”, the journey was proving to be a success; we had already gone through Castile when, in Verín, where we had stopped for a coffee for ourselves, and the kids had their sodas and Tigretones and Pink Panthers – those horrible little rolls filled with chocolate or strawberry cream that they were addicted to – the engine did not, after a short break, want to work again. It was one of the classic Saab breakdowns so it was no great shock, but that made it even more infuriating: How could be have been so careless? We shouldn’t have stopped!
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Years of experience: 5. Registered at ProZ.com: Jun 2020.
I have just finished an undergraduate degree in Hispanic Studies. I have lived in Spain and Peru, and after teaching English in Spain during this coming year I plan to do an MA in Conference Interpreting and Translation. I'm really passionate about language and culture, and I am trying to get as much knowledge and experience as possible!
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