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6th ProZ.com Translation Contest: "Relationships" » Spanish to English » Entry #3989

Source text in Spanish

Translation #3989

¿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 which beach, in which bed, at which hotel lobby will this letter reach you? This letter I'll hand in to an uninterested clerk for him to put the stamps on it and tell me the postage price, without even looking at me, just repeating the routine gestures. Everything is vague, possible and unlikely: that you read it, that it doesn't reach you, that it does reach you but you don't read it, immersed into more clinging games; or that you read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to those questions that you will always be asked by those who experience the indescribable fortune of sharing you at a table or a friends reunion. Yes, random moments or moods, the envelope that sticks out of your handbag and you decide to open because you're bored or you sink between a comb and a nail file, among loose coins and slips of paper with addresses or messages on them. And if you read it, because I can't stand your not reading it even if it is only to stop reading it later with a weary expression; if you read it up to here, up to this word here, which holds on to your eyes, which seeks to keep your look on what follows...if you read it, what should you care about what I want to tell you? Not that I love you, because you've always known it and it doesn't make any difference to you, and it's not news. It's not news to you, really, wherever you are, loving another woman or just watching the river of women the street wind blows to your table and then sweeps them away in slow boardfuls. ceding you for an instant their daily runs and their figure heads; the colourful regatta one of them will win without knowing it, when you stand up and follow her, making her unique in the crowd at dusk, approach her in the precise instant, at the exact doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key for the night, are exactly falcon, feast and surfeit.