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

Source text in Spanish

Translation by erowe (#4352)

¿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 or hotel lobby will this letter reach you? This letter that I shall hand to a bored clerk to fix the stamps and tell me how much, without so much as a glance at me, just going through the motions yet again. Nothing is certain, everything is possible and improbable – you will read it, it won't get to you, it will get to you but you won't read it, involved as you are in more fitting games. Or you will read it between two sips of wine, between two answers to the questions that those who have the unutterable good fortune to have a share of you at a table or a meeting of friends, are always asking you. One thing is sure, some trick of time or mood will make you decide to open the envelope sticking out of your bag through boredom, or else stuff it down between a comb and nail file, among the loose change and bits of paper scribbled with addresses and messages. And if you do read it - because I can't stand to think that you won't, even if it is only to break off with a weary gesture - if you read it up to here, up to this word here that rivets your gaze and tries to hold it for what comes next, if you do read it, Lamia, how much does it matter to you what I want to tell you? It's not to say that I love you again, because you have always known that and don't care, that's nothing new - no, it really is nothing new for you, wherever you are, loving another woman, or simply looking at the tide of women washed up to your table by the wind in the street and wafted away again in slow tacks, allowing you a glimpse of their figureheads as they course off in many-coloured regattas that one will unwittingly win when you get up and follow her, singling her out from the evening crowd, coming alongside her at just the precise moment, in exactly the right doorway, where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key to the night are purely those of a hawk, feasting, gorging.