Моя жизнь – калейдоскоп увлечений: интеллектуальные игры, ролевое моделирование, огненное шоу, любимая работа – преподавание. А литературное творчество – тот маленький маячок, который освещает мне путь. Пусть сейчас я выступаю скорее как самый преданный зритель, а не творец, но я получаю от этого истинное удовольствие. Текст не просто переводить, нужно его пережить, прочувствовать. Ощутить каждую эмоцию, каждый неуловимый жест, каждое мгновение, когда автор задумался над строчкой. Хочется верить, что у меня получилось.
Я влюблена в хорошие книги лет с трех. Рано начав читать и проживать чужие жизни, сейчас я счастлива, что прикладываю руку к произведению, так меня поразившему своей искренностью. И кто знает, может когда-нибудь я рискну представить на ваш суд что-нибудь свое.
My life is a kaleidoscope of passions: intellectual games, role-play modeling, fire show, favorite work – teaching. A literary work – the small pharos that lights my way. Now I speak more as the most loyal viewer, not the creator, but I get real pleasure from it. The text can’t be translated verbatim, you need to experience it, feel it. I feel every emotion, every subtle sign, every moment when the author thought about stitching. Hopefully, I did.
I love good books since three. Early began to read and to live someone else’s life, I am happy now that I put my hand to the work, so impressed me. And who knows, maybe someday I would venture to submit to your court something of my own.
Перевод повести “На закате”
– E-ge-gay! Get out of the way! – Volodya shouted merrily and boyishly, holding the handlebars of his own tractor.
Heart was singing – it’s his doing! He was also a designer and a collector, and a tester of this technological miracle! And now, all his fantasies became tangible, which meant – it’s not in vain!
Yes, learning as his stepfather wanted was not possible because of time and money, but there was a natural gift, his own experience and observation – relying on them he spent many sleepless nights in front of the drawings, and days – in front of their incarnation in metal! Whatever he did – he mentally perfected his offspring. Sometimes he patiently endured villagers’ jokes – they made fun of him, calling “Kulibin”. If only they knew that the same nickname he was given him by the colonel, without any irony!
Volodya was trying to restore the necessary details, and could not rest before it would not stand in front of his steel “firstborn.” The soul triumphed when he first swept through the village in his car! Surprised neighbors peeped through the windows, some ran out into the street to stare at the wonder – three-wheeled Volodin’s home-made car. It was clumsy in appearance, but functional: its master ploughed his land, and the neighbor’s one – Vladimir never refused. Then came the second model, the third, the fourth – a fantasy did not let him calm down. And it was not in his nature to waste time on useless lying on the stove – hands requested work.
And then life was like a children’s kaleidoscope. Pictures were changing rapidly, day after day, night after night. There were only work and worries. Insensibly children grew, a grandson, and great-grandchildren then. His mother died. Then sister. Only brother Gene stayed from his family. The temples became gray; his face was furrowed by wrinkles – these live lines of the time counter. But all of these graced the former soldier, complementing his image by touches of maturity and wisdom. One was depressing – missing erstwhile power: his eyes were able to change everything, and his hands could not.
… Woe came unexpectedly – Marfa died. And kaleidoscope of life scattered, the rod, which attached imperceptible everyday happiness to these color patterns, was destroyed.
And she so quickly and quietly left for another world, as if she didn’t want to disturb the family: she got up early, as always, burned the furnace.
– I’ll lie down for a bit, grandpa, until it will flare –she told her husband.
He feed the chickens, brought the water and another bundle of wood for reserve. The wood was almost burned down the wood, so it’s time to put the pots to brew.
– Martha, are you asleep? – he called.
Heard nothing in response, he decided to cope with the food independently. He cleaned the pot of potatoes and put it into the oven.
It took some time and it was anxious from the unprecedented silence – from the corner where there was a Marfushina’s bed, there was not a sigh, nor groan. Because of this soundless suddenly became terribly. He walked over to the bed of his wife and saw her staring at the blue sky outside the window, her eyes – the same piercing blue.
“Our bird has flown” – he suddenly remembered his mother’s words about the death of his brother.
“My bird has also flown” – he thought, covering her native eyes by a hand.
And when he understood this, everything seemed unnessesary – the bubbling pot with potatoes, news radio, hives with bees, rising above the window. Everything that he wanted before now was superfluous, useless. He did not have to do nothing. Life was experienced, fire was burnt,only embers had remained … For how many time they have will give enough heat, Volodya did not care.
New shoots of life
– Why did not you tell me anything, why did not say good-bye to me? – He sighed, trying to swallow bitter tears in his throat. – Oh, Martha … I’m sad without you, nobody is to talk with.
Left alone, he once again began to talk with to Marfa. He recalled how he was married unintentionally, hurried, and found, as it turned out, a safe harbor from the storms of life. After all he walked with troubles, and joys to her, not to someone else. And now he felt resentment, which was applied to her often, when he irritated over trifles. Now he saw how she patiently endured everything, she could only a prayer book open or look to a paper icon of the Virgin – and then quietly did her job.
All his wife’s work which he did not notice now become apparent to him, a lonely old man: before his awakening soup somehow magically appeared in the oven, mashed potatoes, sometimes pancakes or cheese cakes. The house was swept clean and the beds pleased by orderly rows of vegetables, free of weeds. Before the traditional Saturday bath clean ironed linen was lying, the windows were adorned with fresh curtains. All it was taken for granted – like an invisible conductor made all breathe and move. As in the fairy tale that was told to him as a child by his mother, “pot, boil!” – And everybody was full. Only now he knew who was this magician-conductor, when warmth and comfort disappeared from the former home.
His granddaughter spent with him the first winter after the death Marfusha. She recently had a second boy. Taking sons with him, she came to her grandfather – the mountain is easier to go through together. Chubby kids who was cheerfully called “jigits” amused him. A granddaughter went to the stove as his wife. There was a smell of baking in the house, children’s voices filled the home – making a new round, life went on. From this awareness, the heart of the old man was beating faster- his branch on the tree of life generally not dried up, it would give the new shoots.