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6th ProZ.com Translation Contest: "Relationships" » Spanish to English » Entry by Nelida Kreer

Source text in Spanish

Translation by Nelida Kreer (#3713)

¿Dónde estás, Lamia, en qué playa, en qué cama, en qué lobby de hotel te alcanzará esta carta que entregaré a un empleado indiferente para que le ponga los sellos y me indique el precio del franqueo sin mirarme, sin más que repetir los gestos de la rutina? Todo es impreciso, posible e improbable: que la leas, que no te llegue, que te llegue y no la leas, entregada a juegos más ceñidos; o que la leas entre dos tragos de vino, entre dos respuestas a esas preguntas que siempre te harán las que viven la indecible fortuna de compartirte en una mesa o una reunión de amigos; sí, un azar de instantes o de humores, el sobre que asoma en tu bolso y que decides abrir porque te aburres, o que hundes entre un peine y una lima de uñas, entre monedas sueltas y pedazos de papel con direcciones o mensajes. Y si la lees, porque no puedo tolerar que no la leas aunque sólo sea para interrumpirla con un gesto de hastío, si la lees hasta aquí, hasta esta palabra aquí que se aferra a tus ojos, que busca guardar tu mirada en lo que sigue, si la lees, Lamia, qué puede importarte lo que quiero decirte, no ya que te amo porque eso lo sabes desde siempre y te da igual y no es noticia, realmente no es noticia para ti allá donde estés amando a otra o solamente mirando el río de mujeres que el viento de la calle acerca a tu mesa y se lleva en lentas bordadas, cediéndote por un instante sus singladuras y sus máscaras de proa, las regatas multicolores que alguna ganará sin saberlo cuando te levantes y la sigas, la vuelvas única en la muchedumbre del atardecer, la abordes en el instante preciso, en el portal exacto donde tu sonrisa, tu pregunta, tu manera de ofrecer la llave de la noche sean exactamente halcón, festín, hartazgo.
Where are you, Lamia, on what beach, in which bed, which hotel lobby, where will it reach you, this letter that I shall hand over to an indifferent clerk who will paste the stamps on it, tell me the price of postage and not even look at me, just go through the motions. Everything is imprecise, possible and improbable: that you read it, that it never reaches you, that it does reach you and you don’t read it, entrapped by more demanding games; or that you do read it between sips of wine, or in the midst of this or that other answer to such questions as those indescribably fortunate beings who are able to share you at a meal or a gathering with friends, will be always asking of you; yes, a random series of instants or moods, the envelope peeping out from your bag and which you decide to open because you are bored, or which you have buried deep between a comb and a nail file, among loose coins and slips of paper with addresses or notes. But if you do read it, because I cannot bear the idea that you won’t, even if only to break it off with a moue of ennui, if you do read it up to here, up to this word here which clings to your eyes and seeks to draw your gaze onto the next lines, if you do read it, Lamia, why should you care about anything that I wish to tell you, certainly not about the fact that I love you, because this you already know since forever and ever and you don’t give a damn and it is not news, it really is no news to you, there, in that place where you will be loving some other woman or just watching the river flow of women that the street wind blows onto your table and sweeps away in slow drifts, women who for an instant shall offer up to you their runs and their figureheads, the multicolored regattas that one of them shall have unbeknownst won when you rise to follow her, having singled her out among the sunset crowds, and you accost her at precisely the right time, in the precisely right doorway where your smile, your question, your manner as you offer her the key to the night, shall precisely be hawk, feast, surfeit.