Reflexions

Reflexions

Aquells que em coneixen saben que la paraula no ha sigut mai allò característic que em defineix. I possiblement tampoc ho és l’eloqüència, l’oratòria o la fluïdesa. Ni la feminitat, entesa com allò socialment imposat a les dones des del seu naixement. Som com els altres ens veuen o això diuen. No obstant, fins i tot jo crearia algun tipus de discrepància. Seria impossible trobar un mot que definís la meva essència de la mateixa manera que ningú té la mateixa interpretació d’una novel•la, d’un poema o d’una pel•lícula.

Sé on sóc encara que sovint no ho sembli. No sé on vaig i dubto que ho sàpiga en un futur proper. Sovint tampoc no sé amb qui estic caminant. I possiblement això és perquè visc més temps als núvols que tocant les voreres. És quan algú o quelcom m’empeny al buit que reacciono, desperto i me n’adono que hi ha alguna cosa diferent en l’ambient, que quelcom se m’escapa. I descobreixo que el temps que ha passat és infinitament major del que n’era conscient. Dies, setmanes, anys? Qui sap; és tot tan relatiu. A cop de calendari tot és clar però us ofereixo un repte. Mesureu el dia que esteu neguitosos per un esdeveniment important, per una cita, per un examen... Compareu-lo amb aquell dia que us heu trobat un amic que feia temps que no veieu. Duren el mateix?

Visc als núvols, deia. I no sé perquè. Possiblement m’hi han anat empenyent a través dels anys. O potser no és just donar-li la culpa als altres. En qualsevol cas, sóc jo la que és aquí i no els altres. Com hi he arribat? Qui sap. M’hi quedaré gaire temps? És possible. Des d’aquí és tot més senzill. No hi ha res millor que agafar quelcom amb perspectiva. El problema és que sovint la distància que agafo no em permet veure les coses com són realment. Ni sentir-les.

Fa uns anys escriure em permetia una visita ràpida per on sóc ara. Era suficient i commovedor. La tornada era afalagadora i podia conviure amb els diferents aspectes de mi mateixa. Però això va acabar fa ja molt de temps. Començar a escriure va suposar per mi trobar una via d’escapament provisional fins a poder arreglar-me a mi mateixa. La via d’escapament provisional es convertí en una necessitat. I ja sabeu com són aquestes coses, marxen quan més les necessites. El temps sense escriure em va deixar sense via. He tornat però no és el mateix. Les meves paraules no produeixen el mateix efecte. No creo personatges. No invento vides.

(ins/des)pə'reɪʃən

(ins/des)pə'reɪʃən

This is the moment my imagination unleashes

And only one issue concerns me.

Can you see it?

This is the moment my sorrow vanishes

And an unusual emotion surrounds me.

Can you feel it?

This is the moment my night ends

And the dawn begins to break.

Can you see it?

This is the moment the snow melts

And the earth is all awake.

Can you feel it?

But in a minute everything changes.

I’ve heard that silence before.

But in a minute everything vanishes.

I feel my tears once more.

Words, Words, Words.

Words, Words, Words.

No tot es pot traduir, no. Sempre hi ha quelcom que es perd en el procés. Fins i tot el millor escriptor pot ésser considerat el pitjor de tots si el traductor té un bri de malícia. I no és cert això? Mai no heu explicat un acudit i heu afegit quelcom del vostre vocabulari que no hi era en l’acudit que us havien explicat? O en veure un quadre, com l’heu explicat sense deixar-vos cap pinzellada? Segur que algun cop heu sigut jutges de les obres que us heu llegit, retallant i retallant aspectes de la trama per compassió al vostre oient o simplement perquè heu posat tant poca atenció a un grapat de línies que ja les havíeu oblidades. I qui no us diu que aquestes línies són les que més va trigar l’escriptor a escriure? Qui no us diu que l’autor va deixar-hi l’ànima en aquell grapat de paraules? Per què considereu les paraules de lady Macbeth més importants que les de Malcom? I per què l’únic que podeu dir de l’Ophelia és que embogí o el seu tràgic final?

Darrerament, sento com si alguna cosa s’hagués perdut en el procés. Ha sigut aquest estiu? El darrer any? No ho sabria dir. Tinc la sensació aquella d’una idea que s’ha difuminat en el meu cervell i no la trobo. Mai us heu sentit d’alguna manera que no sabeu anomenar aquell sentiment? No sabeu la paraula i per més que la cerqueu és inútil. La ment és com una pàgina en blanc. Sí, així em sento ara mateix, com una pàgina en blanc que ha sigut esborrada a corre cuita. Hi queden bocins de llapis en alguns indrets però no són suficientment foscos com per fer-se veure. Malgrat no es vegin, la pàgina ha sigut utilitzada i te n’adones.

Com deia, quelcom s’ha perdut en el procés. I no us pregunteu si he guanyat quelcom? Sí, com l’acudit aquell que us deia, que afegíeu alguna paraula de la vostra collita. És possible. De fet, és tot tant relatiu que fins i tot ara mateix guanyar podria significar el seu antònim. És gràcies a les batalles perdudes que he pogut reflexionar i escriure. Sobretot he pogut escriure. I no és això guanyar? Qui mesurarà si el que he guanyat és equivalent al que he perdut? Com en aquell poema que el poeta dóna gràcies a la seva estimada per haver sigut rebutjat constantment. Gràcies a ella un poeta del segle 20 va poder expressar en versos el seu neguit.

El meu traductor personal ha embogit durant els últims anys. “Limita’t a traduir”, vaig dir-li, “o et perdràs en les meves paraules.” Hauria d’haver insistit més, haver pujat el to, fer-lo autoritari. Potser si m’hagués posat de puntetes mentre ho deia, les meves paraules haurien tingut efecte. Qui sap. La qüestió és que no puc trobar-lo enlloc. I em faríeu un favor d’avisar-me si el trobeu. No és que sigui masoquista, la veritat. Un traductor boig no pot ser bo, oi? I si tradueix malament què? Bé, puc suportar el risc. En qualsevol cas una traducció mal feta es pot modificar millor que allò mai traduït.

Paraules, paraules, paraules.

His Yellowish Hands

HIS YELLOWISH HANDS

The yellow yarn was slipping from Nora’s creaky fingers. She was alone. A sunbeam went through the living room window. She was about to finish knitting a pair of shoes for the new-born baby Maya. Every single wool yarn chained a perfect symmetry that will shortly culminate in a black button on each side.

‘Don’t they look lovely?’ she said to one of her canaries. ‘They are yellow,’ she thought. ‘Oh, yes, like his hands.’

In spite of her vanishing memory she was capable of remembering his hands. His yellowish hands had lain motionless on the hospital bed. His stiff and thin legs had been covered by stinking sheets, the odour of which came from under them impregnating the entire room.

‘Is he having problems to defecate, again?’ the nurse asked Nora.

‘Yes. The enema is helping him do it. The smell is disgusting.’

The smell had produced a distorted image of the room in every visitor. The room length became more reduced and the air more oppressive and asphyxiating.

Nora had been with her daughter and granddaughter visiting her husband for months. The three women had been sitting on chairs placed on each side of the bed staring at the old man’s body. If they had been viewed from the sky they would have been seen as a distorted symmetry formed by three black circles around a white rectangle headed by a hairless caput.
They had remained in the same room for days until the artificial breath was not obliged to enter his rotten lungs. The old man was not waking up. That was a fact. Was it better for them to know his terrible doom? Didn’t any of them expect it? Does the hare hear the bullet after it is shot?

Nora’s face was grave but her fingers did not stop knitting. Her vision became blurred and she rubbed her eyes. ‘My sight is not as good as it was,’ she thought ‘nor my hands either. His hands were stronger than mine. My dear canary I remember the time we arrived in this land… ’

It was a hot summer in Badalona but not as hot as it had always been in the south. Nora and her husband had arrived penniless, with two children and obviously without a home. His hands were the ones which built the wood cabin they were going to inhabit for years. If you visit the village nowadays you will not find cabins but cheap blocks of flats. But there were plenty of cabins in the poorest boroughs inhabited by migrants of the wretched south. Believe me it is a true story as true as the green olives and brown acorns of the dry fair Extremadura.

‘We were very cold in the winter and very hot in the summer. It was awful but we were together. Believe it my dear canary: it is a true story as the yellow yarn of these shoes.’

His building ability went as far as his job as a construction builder allowed him. You may be reading this story from a flat built by his extraordinary hard hands. Nora’s husband retired early as a consequence of an injury in his back but his hands continued being worthy in the market. You may have eaten an apple touched by his hands. There was just one thing his hands were not able to do: writing. He was Mr. X every time he needed to sign a document. His wife wrote down the other important things such as telephone numbers, the lottery numbers or Christmas’ postcards.

‘A famous poet died yesterday. I don’t remember his name now, my canary. I suppose the disease was the same one. Do you know why I know that? The news always says ‘Mr.___ died this morning after a long disease.’ Oh, they always say the same thing when it’s the big C! They always say the same thing. Every time I hear that I also wonder the same thing. I wonder if the poet’s room smelt like my husband’s.’

The knitting needle stopped. It had already touched her wedding ring twice that night. Nora decided to take the ring off and put it on the table. She continued knitting.

‘He was a solitary man my dear canary! But he was handsome! Oh, of course he was! But the chemo weakened him. It made his face skinnier and uglier. But you know what my canary? His eyes were the same. Oh yes, the same ones I met in my pueblo.’ Her fingers did not stop knitting for a moment. ‘And yes, his hair disappeared. It vanished. Her hands were not same either. They trembled. The doctors said the shaking of his hands was caused by the brain and lung tumours and the weakness of the chemo. But you know what my canary? I don’t think so. They were wrong. His hands trembled because he was scared. Dear canary just imagine you were about to go to your home town after 40 years of being here! Wouldn’t you be scared my dear canary?’ she said opening her eyes widely. ‘Now, here they are! These yellow shoes are finished! Aren’t they lovely? Just like his hands.’