Преподаватель английского языка, начинающий переводчик. В свободное время пытаюсь писать для детей. Увлекаюсь символикой, эзотерикой, пишу научную работу по воздействию художественного текста на читателя, поэтому самой очень нравится экспериментировать со словом.
Перевод отрывка рассказа “Дар”
…There was a table in the yard, near the queen-apple, which spread its branches over our house. The table was honey-lit with the light from veranda – like a warm shining path with the whole family at the end, preparing magical dinner under a cosy tester of leaves. In the shadow of flavours we passed each other the plates and bowls full of food – from hand to hand, barely touching the tabletop. Supper was in full flow, headed by our mother, of course. She was the Queen, and we were her good subjects, admiring her and accepting her graceful favor. She`s just brought a bowl of homemade chocolate – her first experience, just to please the children. The sweet sticky mass hasn`t fully frozen in the sugar-white bowl and each of us tried to taste it in the first place. We licked our spoons while Mitra put his finger into delicious substance – and lucky him, he got a Golden hair!
– Oh, my, – the Queen laughed faintly, – it`s mine. Give it to me, – and she took out the treasure and gave Mitra a spoon instead. – Now, let`s eat. And stop eating sweets – try vegetables first.
Later that evening father stretched a long wire out of the house, hung it over the branch and clicked the switch. The wire swung in a convulsive flutter with a shining lamp-float at the end. The flashes of light moved fantastically in their crazy dance, disturbing sleeping birds and casting velvet shadows over the yard.
Mitra was in love with this night, its charming bliss of darkness. The midnight sorceress generously spread the diamonds of stars above his head, wrapped him gently in the soft blanket of the night air and whispered soothing words in his ear. The cicadas sang, as if someone was winding dozens of tiny clocks in the dark shaggy bushes. The shrill little notes of gnats; the peaceful clatter of plates; mother`s singing on veranda, with a colourful whisp of her flowery dress; father, sitting silent like a stone idol, blowing bitter smoke of his cigarette; iris umbrellas here and there; sleepy doves curring somewhere above; full-fed dog sleeping peacefully at their feet – Mitra was trying to absorb all these sounds, scents and feelings, not to lose a single bit of these memories. And one more thing – a shining trace of a shooting star in the jade-black sky…
The house slumbered at last. The boy looked at it, trying to see the dim rough lines of whitewalls, spiky web of dog-rose in front of the window and their workshed, full of dust-covered chests, tool boxes and plenty of other things. That was his house, his little haven, a center of the universe – not big, but still his own home, warm and familiar, outside of all space and time.
Mitra took off his shoes and put his bare feet on warm and shaggy belly of the dog, that was softly rumbling after a full meal. The boy let dog`s fur glide through his toes and felt its stout heart beating fast and thick under a skin.
Life flowed on without a hitch. And everything he needed was here, within his arm reach, filling his heart with contentment and peace.
The father glanced at his son and smiled, as if reading his thoughts. He gently tousled boy`s hair and pointed to where there was a huge watermelon under a piece of ice. Mother, singing to himself, came to it with a knife and towel in her hands.