ProZ.com translation contests »
6th ProZ.com Translation Contest: "Relationships" » Spanish to English » Entry by Donald Scott Alexander

Source text in Spanish

Translation by Donald Scott Alexander (#4393) — Winner

¿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 what bed, in what hotel lobby will this letter reach you - this letter which I'm about to hand to some bored postal clerk who will just go through the usual motions of stamping it and telling me the postage without even bothering to look at me? Nothing's definite, anything's possible, nothing's likely: maybe you'll read it - or maybe it'll never get to you - or maybe it will get to you but you won't read it, caught up as you are in other, more absorbing amusements. Or maybe you'll read it between two sips of whatever wine you're drinking, between two of the answers you're giving to those questions you're forever getting asked by those women who enjoy the unspeakable luck of being able to share a lunch or just a friendly get-together with you: yes, that's it, a chance moment or mood, your bag there with the envelope sticking out, which you just happen to pull out and open because you're bored - or which you just happen to push back in, between a hair-comb and a nail-file, between loose change and scraps of paper scribbled with names or messages. And if you do get around to reading it, because I can't bear the thought of you not even getting around to reading it even if you just end up putting it down halfway through with a sigh of boredom, if you do read it this far, all the way to this word right here, this word that's grasping at your attention, this word that's struggling to keep your eyes moving along the page, if you do read it, Lamia, how could it possibly matter to you what I want to say to you now, not I love you because you've always known that and you couldn't care less and it's not news, it's really not news to you wherever you may be right now, loving some other woman or maybe just watching the stream of women as they drift towards your table on the breeze from the street and slowly tack away again, each sailing past you on her daily course with her figurehead to the fore - a multicolored regatta which one of them will suddenly win without even knowing it when you get up and follow her and single her out in the crowded afternoon, when you go over to her at just the right moment and in just the right doorway where your smile, your question, your way of offering the key to the night will be like a falcon, a feast, an overflowing.