Увлекаюсь изучением иностранных языков, и недавно появилось большое желание заниматься переводами. Придавая новое звучание словам, но оставляя их смысл, переводчик будто пропускает через себя все происходящее на страницах произведения. По-моему, это очень даже интересно:)
I’m just a person who wants to develop his hobbies and likes to his career. I like feeling like a writer or translator, catching certain words out of my head and giving them certain order. Language is just a tool, but too mysterious and complex no to be worth special amazement.
Перевод произведения “По перрону тридцать метров, или Так просто”
Thirty meters along the platform or It’s so simple
In one of the recent letters to my elder friend I wrote the following: “Sometimes I am worried by strange thoughts coming to my mind: chances to be a Human seem to lessen. A happy human. Delighting one. The one, who gives light to others. But it seems to be so simple. So simple, but sometimes something still goes wrong…”
I’ve sent the letter already and another one as well, but unpleasant aftertaste remained though. And restlessness. And Memory, which seemed to support them, but accuse me, showed one or another episode of the past as if it got a trump card which I had nothing to block. But I couldn’t help resisting as I had no desire to accept its right. I don’t know how this silent argument would have ended if I suddenly hadn’t remembered about a meeting. This meeting, happened long ago and nearly became forgotten by me, made me doubt in my words and even feel shame for them.
I was walking cautiously, hardly adapting to unsure slow tread of the woman I barely had knocked down, but now supported by her hand. It was just about several minutes we were walking together, but the random fellow traveler already managed to tell me how fortunately and cheaper than in a city center she had bought cereals and how quickly she had done it, but what a misfortune – she couldn’t walk to a bus stop in her own as the muscles of arms and legs had become paralyzed – no ability even to make a step, forehead and back sweated because of tension – but was there at least anyone who sees it? For sure, it would relieve then, it always relieves, but why to stay like a statue at the middle of the road, causing puzzled glances?..
Distractedly nodding, I almost didn’t listen carefully to the essence of what I’ve been told. It was another thing I’ve been wondering more: for what reason, why did unknown person tell all his worries and problems to a stranger, to me? Were we in a train drinking tea? It is there one can confess as much as he wishes.
And still now, trying to describe everything I felt that moment, I can clearly remember my inner irritation: “Doesn’t she have anybody else to talk with?” We’ve crossed the road safely, but nearby the bench, situated next to the side of Newsstand, Dasha, as the woman had introduced herself, stopped and asked me:
-“Let’s sit for a while. Please, stay with me a little longer, I see that you’re a good person, you will understand me (doesn’t anybody want to be a good person?). Perhaps you think: ‘lo, she forced herself on me’… But I do have nobody to talk with. (These words made me wince – my silence was interpreted so exactly by absolutely unfamiliar person). Thanks to parents – I read somehow since three and a half years, and this is happiness for unhappy ones like I am. What joys does sick child have? We used to have an opportunity to go to sanatoriums, where all the children were like me: epileptics, children with cerebral palsy… All of them were there on equal terms with their problems. Nonetheless, we had enough tears and resentment and misunderstanding. But here…everything is different, everything is not in a proper way… It’s impossible to speak with someone in a right manner. As soon as you try to, their eyes are full of pity. That’s far from communication!”
Dasha started worrying and, probably, that is why her speech was slow, words barely obeyed her, occasionally slipping from the tongue in inaudibility or sticking on an unpronounceable syllable.
“I’ve been thinking for a long time and anyway it’s offensively, as we are healthy ones, even healthier than many others. But they take us nearly for fools. Is it my fault that a drunk midwife hadn’t come in time and my mommy threw me out on the floor? Is it really my fault?! There’s only one joy, thanks to God, it is Kolya, my husband. He’s good though he’s a taciturn person, always in himself; we have no close friends, didn’t make them whereas children weren’t given us by God… Ah!” – Dasha took a deep breath, waved with an unoccupied hand and stopped speaking, turning away. “She’s so exhausted…” – flashed the thought in my head. While she was speaking, no sound came from my mouth; I was sitting, holding my hands very tight with my knees as if I was cold. I was embarrassed. Or maybe even ashamed, I don’t know. As for Dasha, she continued after the pause.
…Once, when she was just a child, she used to believe sincerely and assiduously in the story, which she had thought up herself – that it’s impossible for people, who have different faces, figures and heights, to have the same pace. Things don’t happen this way, do they? It means nobody should care the way others walk. This small but important discovery was accepted by the child’s mind very quickly. But indeed, for unknown reason, every time people had been staring after her too closely (she could always accurately recognize such outside messages from any distance) or, what is worse, straightly on her legs or the way she walks – her heart couldn’t help beating smoothly, steps strayed and little minds started vainly searching for at least any explanation. As time passed, it had become forgotten, but then happened again. Perhaps, till the end of her days, Dasha will “stumble” on curious glances of, apparently, not so good mannered people, who weren’t taught that it’s improperly to stare on physical disabilities this way, without any restraint. “You shouldn’t do so” – as mom used to speak. Sometimes Dasha shocked any of her new acquaintances (or old one?) with unexpected stream of rude words just because he had somehow managed to come to her from behind suddenly. She just was always afraid when things like that happened – she always expected to hear a nasty chuckle – obviously, something similar had happened in her childhood, and Memory, erasing all the details, kept forever this expectation to be ridiculed just for being different one. Now Dasha is married. She’d met her husband, Nikolay, by chance: they were standing in a huge queue for flour one after another (at that time, at the beginning of 90-s, some of the products were given for the coupons). Nikolay is disabled from childhood too. As turned out, living together is not that woeful…