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Swedish to English: Blå rök/Blue mist General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Swedish Dörrklockan sjöng så som bara hon kan få den att låta. Den var så att säga analog och lät olika beroende på hur den trakterades. När hon tryckte kvillrade den nästan koltrastlikt. Jag småsprang nerför den filtklädda trappan och öppnade dörren. Ett svart kallt regn föll utanför verandan men om vi inte rörde oss förblev vi torra och rentav lite värmda av husets värmestrålning. Jag gick ut och vi ställde oss på det lilla trädäcket: en smal remsa som skiljer huset från världen utanför. Ett mellanområde. Jag vet inte varför vi inte gick in. Det kändes självklart att stå just här, där hon mött mig så många gånger, kommit lysande i sina korta Californiashorts och påmint mig om att Bobby har en antites i världen, att natten inte är kompakt.
– So, you’re going home, sa jag efter en stunds tystnad. – It’s been great getting to know you, Goran.
– You have been ... you are very, very special to me, sa
jag och försökte få orden att laddas med någon sorts hetta. Jag kunde inte gärna säga mer än så, men kanske skulle hon förstå om jag fick orden att brinna. Jag började skälva, inte av kylan utan av upprymdhet – senast jag skälvde så var i elvaårsåldern, då jag kunde bli upprymd av vad som helst, levde med extasen bara ett andetag bort varje dag: ett nytt tevespel, en fotbollsmatch, lasagne till middag ... och varje gång dessa konvulsioner, bröstkorgen som började darra av att bara finnas till.
Samma skälvning nu.
Hon såg på mig med det där labradorglada ansiktet, hennes ... standardglädje. Den som alltid var där. Stadig och självklar.
– Oh. You have been special to me as well, sa hon enkelt som om hon svarat på ett sms.
– Well. Good bye, then, sa jag och började svalna.
– Var finns det en mataffär?
Nemi hoppade till när Nicholas studsade ut ur huset i lila
fleecetröja, axellångt hår och flipfloptofflor.
– Nemi, this is Nicholas, my best friend from Sweden. –
Det finns en Safeway två kvarter bort till vänster där. Nemi bara tittade.
– Har de follisar?
– Har aldrig kollat. Tror det. Finns ju inga Systembolag
här direkt. Testa.
– Är det OK med dig om jag köper lite bira?
Jag väntade några sekunder och sa bara:
– Ja.
– Hi hi, o, vad gott det ska bli, sa Nicholas och gnuggade sig i ögonen som ett yrvaket barn på julaftons morgon, skuttade sedan vidare ut i det svarta.
Då omfamnade hon mig mjukt och stadigt. Hon nådde mig till bröstkorgen som nu började skälva igen. Tusen tankar i mig försökte frysa tiden, jag försökte bli mindful och uppleva stunden till max, känna hennes kropp mot min, mina händer på hennes små axlar skuldror, hennes
silkeshårs lätta friktion mot mitt hjärta, hon släppte plötsligt och jag hade bara pladdrat med mig själv under de sekunderna, överröstat våra tysta kroppar. Hon fattade mina händer och tog ett halvt steg tillbaka.
– I will call and check in with you next spring to see how you’re doing, OK?
– Promise?
– Promise.
– Hitza hitz, then, försökte jag.
Hon sken upp. Mina bröstkorgsben började darra igen. – Your Basque is awful ..., sa hon med sin distinkta,
kavata röst och såg upp på mig. – Blame Ulf Lundell.
– ...butIgetit.Iwillcallyou. – I’ll be waiting, sa jag.
Hon tryckte till lätt över mina händer och skiftade grepp en aning.
– Your hands are like ice cubes.
– I’m anemic. I have anemia.
– Oh. I am sure there are some pills you can take.
– I used to get iron shots.
– Stop.
– Stop what?
– Shots. Needles. Don’t want to hear about that, OK?
– Sure. Didn’t mean too ...
– So don’t.
– Just curious, you have a phobia or something?
– You could put it that way.
Regnet började avta. Våra ord också. Hon hade slutit sig
nu. Jag visste inte vad jag skulle göra. Jag började prata om skolan.
– I got an A on my English essay, sa jag.
– Good for you, sa hon artigt men frånvarande. What was the subject?
– Fatherlessness. – Yours?
– Mine.
– Did he drink?
– Kind of.
– Did he do other stuff?
– Don’t think so.
– Good for you. Fathers can do crazy things. With pills
and needles.
Nu samlades våra splittrade kraftfält och slöt sig om oss i
friska, stadigt strömmande mönster. Jag kunde nästan se hur de ordnades runt Nemi, som om något sicksackade runt henne för att lappa och laga. Det blev tyst igen, men heligt tyst nu, en tystnad att vila i. Jag kände verandan under mina fötter, jag kände jorden. Hennes ansikte som suddats ut när vi trevade blev nu knivskarpt tydligt och lika glödande som husen hon satte eld på i San Francisco i höstas – som när reglagen för skärpa och färgmättnad hastigt vrids upp i Photoshop.
Jag såg på henne och hon på mig.
– Good bye, sa hon och tycktes sedan komma på sig
själv. Något avbröts. Hon log soligt en sista gång, men nu på sitt vanliga sätt, som om inget hade hänt. I morgon skulle hon väl bara öppna nästa godispåse. Hon färdades genom livet längs ett pärlband av godispåsar.
Som hon åt och spydde upp.
– Bye, sa jag neutralt och stod kvar och såg sedan hennes skugga vinka till mig i gatans glittrande halvdunkel.
Translation - English The doorbell sang the way only she could make it sing. It was analogue, so to speak, so its sound varied with the handgrip of the ringer. When she pushed it it twittered like a blackbird. I darted down the carpeted stairs and opened the door. A cold dark rain was falling outside the front porch. She didn’t step inside, and I slowly gravitated towards her, so we ended up on this tiny wooden deck: a thin strip separating the house from the world outside. An in-between area, a potential space. If we didn’t move, we stayed dry and even slightly warmed by the heat radiating from the house. I don’t know why we didn’t go indoors. It felt obvious that we should stand right here, where she had picked me up so many times, dancing down the street shining in her California shorts, reminding me that there is an antithesis to Bobby, that the Night is not invincible.
—So, you’re going home, I said after a moment of silence.
—It’s been great getting to know you, Goran.
—You have been ... you are very special to me, I said, trying to infuse the words with some kind of warmth. I could hardly say more than that, but maybe she would understand if I set the words on fire. I started to shiver, not from the cold but from the excitement—the last time I shivered like that was when I was about eleven, when just about anything could excite me, when I lived with ecstasy just one breath away each day: a new video game, a soccer match, lasagna for dinner ... and each time these convulsions, my rib cage starting to shake just from being alive.
Same shivering now.
She looked at me with that labrador-cheerful face, her ... standard joy. The joy that was always there. Unwavering.
—Oh. You have been special to me as well, she said plainly as if she had replied to a text message.
—Well. Good bye, then, I said and started to cool down. —Where is the grocery store?
Nemi startled as Nicholas bounced out of the house in his
purple fleece sweater, shoulder long hair, and flip flops. —Nemi, this is Nicholas, my best friend from Sweden. —
There is a Safeway two blocks down the street. Nemi just stared.
—They got beer?
—Never checked. Think so. You won’t find any
Systembolag here, so go ahead and see for yourself. —You OK if I buy some beers?
I waited a few seconds. Then I said:
—Yes.
—Yay, yummy in my tummy, said Nicholas, rubbing his eyes like a child waking up on Christmas Day, skipping out into the dark.
Then she embraced me softly and steadily. She reached me to my chest, which again started to shiver. A thousand thoughts in my head wanted to freeze time, I tried to stay mindful and experience the moment fully, feel her softness against my stiffness, my hands over her tiny shoulders, her silky hair’s light friction over my heart; then she suddenly let go and all I had done was gibbering to myself during those seconds, deafening our silent bodies. She grabbed my hands and took a half step back.
—I will call and check in with you next spring to see how you’re doing, OK?
—Promise?
—Promise.
—Hitza hitz, then, I tried.
She lightened up. My ribs began to tremble again.
—Your Basque is awful ..., she said with her distinct voice
and looked up at me. —Blame Ulf Lundell.
–...but I get it. I will call you.
—I’ll be waiting, I said.
She gently squeezed my hands and shifted the grip
slightly.
—Your hands are like ice cubes, she said.
—I’m anemic. I have anemia.
—Oh. I’m sure there are some pills you can take.
—I used to get iron shots.
—Stop.
—Stop what?
—Shots. Needles. Don’t want to hear about that, OK? —Sure. Didn’t mean too ...
– So don’t.
– Just curious, you got a phobia or something?
– You could put it that way.
The rain started to cease. So did our words. She had
closed up now. I didn’t know what to do. I started talking about school.
—I got an A on my English essay, I said.
—Good for you, she said distantly. What was the subject? —Fatherlessness.
—Yours?
—Mine.
—Did he drink?
—Kind of.
—Did he do other stuff?
—Don’t think so.
—Good for you. Dads can do crazy stuff.
Now the scattered energy fields surrounding us started to
reassemble, converging in vibrant, steadily streaming patterns. I could almost see with my bare eyes how they arranged around Nemi, as if something was crisscrossing around her to mend, to heal. The silence returned, but a holy silence this time, a silence to rest within. I sensed the porch under my feet, I sensed the earth. Blurred out while we were trembling, her face now appeared in razor-sharp
definition, just as glowing as the houses she had set on fire in San Francisco—like when Photoshop parameters are adjusted to enhance sharpness and saturation.
I looked at her, she looked at me.
—Good bye, she said, and seemed to catch herself right on the verge of something, which she hastily aborted. It all happened in a second. Then that something was gone. She smiled sunnily one last time, but now it was her regular smile, as if nothing had happened. Tomorrow she’d probably just open a new bag of candy. She was travelling through life along a rail of candy bags.
Which she ate and then puked up.
—Bye, I said neutrally, standing still, watching her shadow wave at me in the glittery dusk of the empty street.
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Years of experience: 7. Registered at ProZ.com: Jun 2017.
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