“The first of Uruguayan writer Mercedes Rosende’s novels to be published in English tells the unlikely tale of how a cowardly kidnapper, a psychotic jailbird, a sleazy lawyer, a superstitious cop and a bulimic killer get involved in a disastrous armed robbery.”
“The guy is chewing something. He smiles, shows the gum between his teeth, walks around Diego, almost dancing, like a boxer circling his rival, bobbing and weaving; he rolls up his sleeves, reveals his black tattoos, letters that spell out names, skulls with glowing eyes, red bloodstains gushing across his skin.”
“Crocodile Tears occupies Elmore Leonard/Patrick Hoffman territory, with a cast of amoral characters observed intimately and ironically, and here with a certain amount – but not an overdose – of playful commentary.”
“The translation by Tim Gutteridge is a pleasure to read.”
“There’s an undercurrent of energy that suits the mayhem of the events that unfold. There’s also something of a voyeuristic quality to the way Rosende takes readers into these characters lives, while commenting on them here and there. We’re like Ursula, peering into the lives of others, fascinated. “
“Rosende, ably translated by Gutteridge, has some pizazz to her prose.”
“The plot is devilishly clever, meshing disparate characters, outrageous situations and improbable coincidences with an off kilter logic that is convincing. The dysfunctional underbelly of Uruguayan society, be it the corporate boardroom or the crowded prison cell, is exposed to ridicule by a series of sharply observed vignettes.”
“Tim Gutteridge conveys the sardonic wit of this screwball adventure in his English translation.”
“A book that introduces us to an entire range of weird and wonderful characters who all jumble together to attempt a heist which goes anything but smoothly along with fantastically dark humour and comedy that makes it a cracking, unique read.”
“The translation of the book by Tim Gutteridge is great.”
“The delivery of these characters’ portraits, containing difficult societal observations but presented with a good dose of dry wit and intelligence, shows great skill on part of translator Tim Gutteridge too.”
“If you’re a fan of crime fiction, and you’re open to a fresh new take on this brilliant genre, then you shouldn’t miss Crocodile Tears.”
“Wow! If anything was lost in the translation (Mercedes is Uruguayan) then Crocodile Tears certainly isn’t the poorer for it: the plot flows well, the prose and syntax are spot-on, and humour crosses the cultural divide seamlessly.”
“The language is gritty and urban, with a transatlantic use of words such as patsy and shiv yet there are also illumining descriptions that must have been a joy to translate, whether it’s the secret late night trips to the refrigerator or the priest’s confession”
“…adeptly translated by PEN Translates Award winning Scotsman, Tim Gutteridge”
“What makes this sing is the wonderful prose which demands that you leave no paragraph, or perhaps no sentence, unread. Many translated works are simply awkward in a new language. Here, the translation is so good you might think it was originally written in English.”
The last major day-to-day restrictions are being lifted and we are entering la nueva normalidad, the new normal. Another neologism I would be happy never to hear again. My main concern focuses on the beach. It was completely off limits for a while; I wasn’t even allowed to take the dogs there. Then we were gradually released from lockdown, and we were allotted time slots when we could take the air. I went to the beach that first evening and found myself marching along the shoreline, masked, surrounded by a mass of my fellow gaditanos in a bizarre ritual: Mediterranean paseo meets government-directed exercise. I didn’t go back.
The promise, though, is that the beach will be more or less normal, give or take a few restrictions on capacity, some social distancing, reduced facilities (no showers, for example). This reassures me. I have already ruled out the idea of international travel for the time being and, really, there are worse places to be stuck during a pandemic than Cadiz. I already see, stretching ahead of me, a summer of warm days, working to a gentle rhythm, evenings on the beach with friends. Any restrictions, I suspect, will work in the favour of the locals, deterring the usual summer visitors who come down from Seville and Madrid, ensuring there will be plenty of space for the regulars. On its little peninsula jutting out in the sea, Cadiz is privileged: the surrounding Atlantic protects us from the worst extremes of an Andalusian summer. We are at the end of the line: visitors won’t come if they are worried at the prospect of being turned back before they reach the sea.
I don’t feel any urge to travel just now. Quite the opposite. I’m happy to stay put, to wait until the world sorts itself out. I have always been a sedate traveller. I have scarcely left western Europe, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life abroad but mostly in Spain or Italy. This month, though I am to be an armchair traveller, translating a sample from Los sótanos del mundo by Ander Izagirre, in which he visits some of the lowest-lying places on earth.
The excerpt I’m working on is an account of his visit to Astrakhan and the Caspian Sea. This is exactly the kind of travel that has never appealed to me, and even less so now: the sort of trip where extreme discomfort is taken for granted and there is an outside chance of injury or even death. None of which detracts from the pleasure of translating Ander’s writing – if anything, the reverse. There’s a purity to working on his descriptions of the physical, a mode of translation that demands craft and technical skill but also some artistry, looking for solutions at the level of word, phrase and sentence, attending closely to the meaning of the source text while refusing to be constrained by it, triangulating between the source text, the scene it describes, and the target translation. It may be necessary to rearrange things, to clarify, to omit. Certainly, verbs will turn into nouns and adjectives will be swallowed by adverbs. Often, the key to getting it right lies in selecting a single word – perhaps one that is not quite equivalent to the source but whose effects will ripple through the rest of the translated sentence. Indeed, it sometimes feels as if these non-obvious word choices are what it is all about, the difference between a good translation and a bad one, the source – if you’re lucky – of the energy that should flow and crackle through the text. But these choices are hard to write about, difficult to politicize, tricky to theorize.
In the passage below, Ander and his travelling companions are exploring Astrakhan, discovering the gap between map and the reality.
El plano también engaña cuando pinta una zona verde con estanque.
Here’s the literal version (sticking as close as possible to source structure and with obvious word choices):
The map is also misleading when it paints a green area with a pond.
And here’s my translation, with some syntactic tweaking and lexical licence:
The map’s depiction of a green area with a blue pool is also misleading.
A solo quinientos metros del kremlin, la zona verde resulta un cañaveral fiero en el que reinan gatos y perros asilvestrados.
Just 500 metres from the kremlin, the green area is a wild reed bed in which feral cats and dogs rule.
Just half a kilometre from the kremlin, the green turns out to be a mass of reeds that is the domain of feral cats and dogs.
Y el estanque no es azul: descubrimos un gran pozo turbio donde nadan tortugas y aletean cuervos.
And the pond is not blue: we discover a large murky well where turtles swim and crows flap their wings.
And the pool is not blue. We discover a turbid pond in whose waters turtles swim while crows flap overhead.
Tenemos que ponernos de cuclillas junto a la ciénaga y achinar los ojos para convencernos de que ese bulto peludo que flota es un jabalí en descomposición.
We have to squat next to the swamp and squint our eyes to convince ourselves that that hairy lump floating there is a rotting wild boar.
We squat beside the swamp and squint at a hairy, floating lump that reveals itself to be a decomposing wild boar.
Una racha de viento mueve las aguas, el jabalí oscila y su pezuña alzada nos saluda.
A gust of wind moves the water, the boar sways and its raised hoof greets us.
A gust of wind stirs the water, the corpse bobs, its raised hoof salutes us.
Here’s the finished paragraph.
The map’s depiction of a green area with a blue pool is also misleading. Just half a kilometre from the kremlin, the green turns out to be a mass of reeds that is the domain of feral cats and dogs. And the pool is not blue. We discover a turbid pond in whose waters turtles swim while crows flap overhead. We squat beside the swamp and squint at a hairy, floating lump that reveals itself to be a decomposing wild boar. A gust of wind stirs the water, the corpse bobs, its raised hoof salutes us.
This is the last month that I will be in transit, shuttling between our rented family flat for my weeks with the kids and the dogs and my temporary bachelor pad, alternating with my ex, who is also shuttling but with whom I rarely coincide as we slip in and out of the home like actors in a French farce. From July I will resume full-time residence in the family flat, my ex will move into her own place, the kids will shuttle. My son is 18 and will, anyway, be going to university in Seville in the autumn. My daughter is about to enter her final year at school and is making noises about studying in Scotland. Each step forward comes, at best, with a mix of good and bad, bittersweet as the cliché would have it. At least, as I stumble reluctantly forward, I put a little more distance between myself and my worst fear: that the separation from my partner will somehow also separate me from my kids. It’s not a rational fear but it still has emotional weight and only the gradual creation of a new reality will fully displace it.
If the children are to shuttle, though, what will the dogs do? It would be ridiculous, my ex says, for us to share the dogs now we are no longer together. I guess she is right although after the last year I am not sure I have any sense of what is ridiculous and what is not. It turns out to be a moot point as my ex’s new landlord won’t allow her to have dogs in the flat, so both Ronia and Moomin will be staying with me full-time. My feelings are mixed. I’m delighted to have both dogs all the time, of course, but my happiness is tinged with other emotions. I’m hurt and sad – ostensibly on behalf of the dogs who, it feels, have been cast aside quite casually. Or, worse still, not casually at all, part of the price my ex felt she had to pay to obtain n her freedom. I feel angry, like a proud parent – or an abandoned lover. I feel morally superior. And I feel obscurely guilty, aware that the hurt and the sadness and the moral superiority can’t tell the whole story here.
In addition to the sample, I have some more copywriting work and some other ongoing translations but, even so, I’m probably only at about 50 per cent capacity. I’m not too worried – I feel that I have weathered the worst of any downturn, I have ongoing projects, queries coming in, the possibility of postponed work being rescheduled. In the meantime I decide to translate another play, La boda de tus Muertos by Pablo Canosales. This is a surreal black comedy of a family held together not by love but by resentment, disappointment and loathing.
Pablo’s dialogue demands a very different approach from Ander’s prose. Where narrative non-fiction is all about attention to detail, careful choices, syntactic dexterity, translating stage dialogue requires a looser, more freewheeling approach. I would say it’s more creative although I’m not sure that’s quite right. Creativity takes different forms in translation and the apparent distance from or proximity to the source text is only one measure.
If my translation of the descriptions of Astrakhan involved a process of triangulation between source text, translation and my visualization of the scene being described, there is a parallel process when I translate a theatre script. Except here I am not referring to my visualization of a physical scene but, instead, to the dramatic action that the translation invokes. This sense of action is liberating; responding to its demands gives me the confidence to play around with my translation, to be true to the spirit rather than the words of the source text.
It’s really hard to find little excerpts from a theatre script: out of context, they make no sense. However, here are a couple which, I hope, show what I mean.
JESÚS: Se pensará que me la voy a machacar viendo vídeos de gente follando. SOFÍA: ¡Ay, por favor! MARI TERE: ¡Qué asco! JOSETE: ¡De verdad! ¿Qué necesidad tenemos de escuchar eso? JESÚS: ¡Hablo como me da la gana! ¡Que yo también soy joven aunque sea tu padre! JOSETE: Pues que sepas que desde fuera sorprende. Y es raro. Y da grima.
So far, so good. I translated that as follows:
JESÚS: She thinks I’m going to sit on the sofa wanking off while I watch videos of people shagging. SOFÍA: Please! MARI TERE: Don’t be disgusting! JOSETE: Do we really have to listen to this? JESÚS: I’ll talk how I like. I might be your father but I’m still young! JOSETE: Well, it’s news to the rest of us. And a bit weird. And icky.
Usually, when I have a character called Jesús, I consider changing it to something less distracting in English. This time though, I decide to keep the name and make a feature of it. The dialogue continues as follows:
JESÚS: ¡Me cago en mi puta madre! SOFÍA: Deja a la pobre de tu madre tranquila que bien descansada que está.
A hyper-literal translation might be:
JESÚS: I shit on my whore of a mother! SOFÍA: Leave your poor mother in peace, now that she’s resting.
I could have just skated over the wordplay. That’s often the best option, particularly if the alternative is forced. And you can always compensate with a pun or whatever elsewhere in the text. But I decided not to do that. This is quite a high energy text – omitting the wordplay here felt as if it would slightly deflate the dialogue. And, anyway, I was quite happy with this strange hybrid solution, a ‘translation’ that isn’t a translation at all but only works because I have decided not to translate the character’s name:
JESÚS: Jesus fucking Christ! SOFÍA: Please, Jesús! Leave your poor namesake out of it for once in your life.
Theatre translation, perhaps more than other modes, is about being aware of the opportunities that the text throws up. You still have to attend to the source text, of course, but in a rather different way, I think, than is the case when translating prose.
MARI TERE: Papá tiene sangre en las manos y en la boca. Vamos. Debemos huir de aquí o nos comerán. JOSETE: Se enfadarán si no volvemos. MARI TERE: ¿Prefieres que te coman? Te comerán si vuelves con ellos. JOSETE: No. JESÚS: ¡Tengo hambre! ¡Mucha hambre! [I’m hungry! Very hungry!]
MARI TERE: Dad has blood on his hands and around his mouth. Let’s go. We’ve got to get out of here or they’ll eat us alive. JOSETE: They’ll get angry if we don’t go back. MARI TERE: Would you rather they ate you? They’ll eat you if you go back. JOSETE: No. JESÚS: Fee, fi, fo, fum!!
I’m not sure I’d do this in a novel – I’m invoking something very English: the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, whose next words would be “I smell the blood of an Englishman” (taken from a text, what’s more, that people will be most familiar with via the pantomime). But here, I think, it works.
Despite hopes that it might go ahead as scheduled in October, Madrid’s annual theatre book fair fell victim to the second wave of the Covid19 pandemic. However, with some last-minute funding, the meeting of writers and translators went ahead online. I received around 50 plays over the weekend of 21-22 November, and had a full schedule of online author interviews from 24 to 27 November. Here are brief summaries of the plays I discussed. If you think you might be interested in translating one of them, please contact me and I will give you some more information and send you a PDF of the full script. There should be some SGAE funding for these translations although I don’t have any details of that yet.
La orilla también duele, Sebastián Moreno
En 1991, la transexual Sonia es asesinada en el Parque de la Ciudadela (Barcelona) en manos de un grupo de skins. Ella y su amiga Doris, pretendían dormir allí una noche de tormenta, que acabó por inundarlas. Era una década convulsa. Surgían nuevas voces fascistas que se alimentaban de la pobreza y la juventud. Ahora un escritor decide contar su historia, acercarse a la orilla de sus recuerdos perdidos. Una epopeya de cantos de sirenas (varadas, escupidas por las olas de las grandes ciudades). El crimen fue considerado el primer delito de odio en nuestro país, y actualmente una placa conmemorativa, recuerda el hecho y manifiesta el rechazo del ayuntamiento, en el lugar donde murió. Se construye esta alegórica tragedia, para que el rubor de las olas no empañe los gritos de tantas muertes silenciadas, y para que la espuma del mar no borre el sufrimiento y la brutalidad, que no debemos olvidar.
Capullo, quiero un hijo tuyo, Javier Durán
Diana y Mamen son una pareja de mujeres que quieren ser madres, pero no tienen dinero para una inseminación privada ni tiempo para esperar en la sanidad pública, así que deciden disfrazarse y seducir a un hombre para quedarse embarazadas. El elegido es Lucas, un atractivo donjuán que no debería dar problemas. Sin embargo, lo que prometía ser una aventura puntual se acaba prolongando y empiezan a aflorar sentimientos inoportunos.
Un Eduardo más, Miguel Signes Mengual
“Un Eduardo más es una tragedia convertida en drama, que no renuncia a su compromiso y que, sin proponer una catarsis, presenta ante la conciencia de los espectadores no tanto una crítica como una profunda reflexión moral. En esa reflexión se siente, sobre todo, la angustia, la impotencia, la imposibilidad”. La obra no es ninguna adaptación ni reelaboración del Eduardo II de Christopher Marlowe, sino una obra enteramente diferente en su concepción y desarrollo que se sirvió de manera respetuosa pero no fiel de los mismos hechos históricos que el autor inglés nacido en Coventry, para dar una particular visión sobre el uso del poder.
Prohibido autolesionarse, Mariam Budia
El poder de los medios de comunicación ha crecido tanto que estos acaban detentando el Gobierno de Occidente. En su sistema gubernamental, la vida nada vale, los índices de audiencia rigen el devenir de los miembros de la comunidad. Los integrantes de un clan, cuyas vidas han sido creadas mediante el Plan de Generación Laboral del Ministerio de Gracia y Justicia, deberán asumir el protagonismo ante las cámaras de televisión: o imponen condena o serán ajusticiados. “Prohibido autolesionarse, el clan es propiedad de los mass media”.
Un inocente decir sí, Pedro Montalbán Kroebel
Cuatro personajes sufren con todo aquello con que la historia y una vida rutinaria y pequeño burguesa los ha ido cargando –la moral, el sentimiento de culpa, la conciencia, la ideología–. Para emanciparse, romperán primero con sus vidas, tratando de buscar una falsa libertad basada en lo extraordinario y exótico. Pero pronto descubrirán, que para destruir sus fundamentos morales y desenmascarar los principios invisibles que los atan a la conciencia común de los bienpensantes, requerirán no solo un pensamiento revolucionario, sino también librar una violenta batalla contra sí mismos. Tras la muerte de esos dos contrarios –moral y pensamiento crítico– serán capaces de renacer con una libertad inédita.
Requiem, Raúl Hernández Garrido
Un proyecto interdisciplinar: Lo que aquí se refleja es simplemente la formulación escrita de un proyecto que no quiere quedarse solo en el teatro de texto, sino unir bajo el formato musical, litúrgico y de Requiem la música, la danza y el videoarte.
El peso de Judas, Borja de Diego
Luna llena. El frío araña los huesos. En mitad de un jardín, aunque esta noche podría parecer un huerto, un hombre reza desesperado. Aprieta las manos hasta sentir las uñas. Murmura y escucha, necesitado de Dios. Como quien huye y a la vez pidiera consuelo. Como si en cualquier momento pudiera ahogarse o romperse. Se llama Judas y viene de Kerioth.
D’ençà que el món s’ha embrutit…, Pau Ruiz Bernat
Què té a veure una companyia de teatre independent amb un immigrant abandonat al camp on ha treballat tot el dia amb els seus companys? Què té a veure un Turboliberal amb Ifigenia? I un grup d’antics alumnes erasmus amb un jutge de l’audiència nacional i un comissari corruptes? Per què és important comprendre com opera el llenguatge del feixisme? Què escrigué Goebbels a l’última pàgina del seu dietari? Què és el projecte 2083? Què tenen a veure llocs com el camp de refugiats de Mória i un camp de futbol? Qui són col·lectius vulnerables sistemàticament agredits? De quina manera ens informen els mitjans de comunicació sobre el botxí i la víctima? Existeix el feixisme institucional? Hi ha quelcom racisme positiu?
En tránsito, Laura Rubio Galletero
Alex cumple 18 años y decide visitar a su padre en el invernadero donde trabaja. Va a pedirle que le apoye en su transición de género. Le acompaña Xela, reflejo de los modelos femeninos con los que se construye la identidad actual. Ernesto rechaza la petición de Alex, teme que sufra por sus elecciones. Y el desencuentro generacional se precipita.Esta es una historia entre padres e hijas, entre madres e hijos, entre mujeres, entre hombres, entre personas.
Crónico, Mariano Rochman
Luego de romper con su pareja, Daniel decide pedir ayuda a una terapeuta con técnicas innovadoras para superar su problema crónico con el desamor. Sesión tras sesión él irá metiéndose en una terapia desconcertante donde tendrá que entregarse al ciento por ciento a las extravagantes propuestas y pedidos de la terapeuta, quien a su vez oculta una extraña actividad que impregnará la terapia situaciones absurdas y disparatadas.
La soledad de la náufraga, Vicente Marco Aguilar
La soledad de la náufraga que habita en su isla desierta tras muchos años de relaciones fracasadas, se interrumpe con la llegada de un paracaidista quien, tras un gran batacazo, cae en una pequeña isla en el océano donde todo le resulta extraño. Una comedia entre el absurdo y la lógica, que profundiza en la soledad de la convivencia humana, en la incomunicación de la pareja y en las grandes dificultades que acarrea soportar a los demás, incluso muchas veces a uno mismo. La obra obtuvo el primer premio del Certamen Internacional de Requena en el año 2017 y el accésit del Premio Lope de Vega en 2013.
El hijo de Bean Nighe, Javier del Barrio
En pueblo costero de Escocia, durante un tiempo lejano, habita Angus, un niño de 6 años, cuyo imaginario está estimulado por la mitología de su tierra que le cuenta su abuela. Su obsesión por aquellas historias será causa de conflictos con su padre y los demás niños del pueblo. Angus se precipitará hacia un mundo inhóspito, con seres sobrenaturales, que lo llevará a encontrarse por primera vez con su madre, o la mujer que fue su madre. Este suceso hará que Angus realice acciones cuyas consecuencias tendrá que asumir. La obra explora la toma de conciencia en la infancia de la idea de la muerte en su círculo más cercano. En este caso cuando un niño se tiene que enfrentar a un hecho inminente del empieza a tomar conciencia a través de las leyendas del Otromundo.
Texto ganador del XXVII Concurso de textos teatrales dirigidos a público infantil, organizado por la Escuela Navarra de Teatro en colaboración con el Ayuntamiento de Pamplona en el año 2018.
Control remoto, Miguel Ángel Jiménez Aguilar
Ambientada en la España de 2008, justo cuando el país acaba de despertar del sueño de abundancia y dinero fácil procedente de la especulación inmobiliaria, Contro remoto dramatiza la historia de Amanda, una mujer con síndrome de Diógenes que no comprende las reglas de juego de una sociedad consumista y utilitaria. Con un hijo que pretende desahuciarla para especular con su vivienda y la visita de otro que le fue robado al nacer, tendrá que luchar por proteger su casa, discernir la realidad y preservar sus ideales anclados en el imaginario de mayo del 68.
Friday, Irma Correa
Friday es un niño nigeriano de 10 años que quiere ser como Messi. Practica con su balón de trapo mientras ayuda a su tío a recoger cacahuetes y madera. Quiere ahorrar dinero para comprarse un balón de reglamento. Hasta que un día su tío les vende a él y a su hermano como esclavos en una plantación. Comenzarán entonces una huida hacia Europa, la tierra prometida, sorteando toda suerte de peligros, el tráfico de personas, la noche. Friday terminará escondido en el hueco del timón de un petrolero junto con otros dos polizones, compartiendo su deseo de alcanzar la tierra de la libertad. Pero los kilómetros que separan las costas africanas del faro de la Entellada, en las isla de Fuerteventura, se convertirán en muros de agua, que harán que la luz del faro se convierta en un espejismo, quizá una irrealidad. Una irrealidad atrozmente inalcanzable.
Impulsos (bpm), María Prado
bpm: beats per minute: pulsaciones por minuto: unidad empleada para medir el ritmo en música, la frecuencia cardíaca, y la velocidad en mecanografía.
Una autora se (auto)censura la obra que va escribiendo. Distintas escenas breves componen un mosaico de violencias, de impulsos, que la autora escribe y reescribe, donde las/los hablantes se mueven entre la palabra que golpea y el silencio que se atraganta. Las palabras pueden liberar o dañar. Las palabras vibran en los cuerpos y los hacen vibrar. ¿Hay límites a la libertad de expresión? ¿Qué es la violencia en el uso del lenguaje? Impulsos (bpm) parte de estas preguntas para escarbar en la pulsación de la palabra violenta, en las (auto)censuras que se incorporan en nuestra vida cotidiana desde la infancia, en las fronteras entre lo dicho y no dicho, en la libertad y la responsabilidad de decir. Actuar, escribir, decir, como la necesidad desesperada de elocuencia en un mundo fracturado, violento, incoherente.
La casa crecía, Jesús Campos García
Una gran señora alquila un palacio por una módica cantidad y el compromiso de cuidarlo, a una pareja de funcionarios que lo que pretendía era alquilar un piso. Y cuando se las prometían muy felices limpiando obras de arte, el hijo –un joven financiero de la city– con el pretexto de que su madre no está en posesión de sus facultades mentales trata de invalidar el contrato. La pareja se niega; y el financiero, acogiéndose a una cláusula que le permite seguir incorporando enseres de todo tipo a las colecciones del palacio les abruma con más riqueza de la que pueden soportar. La historia, por razones insostenibles en el marco de una sinopsis, culmina con un conflicto bélico. Es lo que pasa cuando se mezcla una comedia burguesa con el teatro del absurdo que la verosimilitud hay que cocerla en su propia salsa.
We’ve been in lockdown for six weeks now, and I can feel it taking its toll. During the weeks when I am with my kids, I focus on them. I barely work, I deliver coffee to their bedrooms in time for the first class of the day (a civilized 9 o’clock start replacing the brutal 7 o’clock call of the old days). I walk the dogs, shop, make sure there is lunch on the table, rewatch The Sopranos with my son, make supper. There is a certain comfort in this small-scale domestic life. I decide that any day on which I make scones is a success.
It’s tougher when I’m on my own. I have less work – which is both a curse and a blessing. And I have a few assignments that seemed like a good idea when I took them on but which now seem to be mocking me. One of my lockdown symptoms is that I have developed a complete inability to read fiction. This wouldn’t necessarily be a problem. I have always enjoyed non-fiction and am happy to put myself on a diet of memoir, travel and nature writing. Unfortunately, pre-covid, I agreed to review a couple of novels. I force myself to read them. They are both quite good, I think. But getting through them is excruciating. (A confession: I only finish one of them.) I cobble together something coherent and complimentary to say about them and retreat into James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small.
Next up is a piece I agreed to co-write for the ITI bulletin. The subject is joy. something that is currently in short supply in my life. I worry that writing the piece is an act of hypocrisy. Or that it will simply prove impossible. My fears are unfounded. I am co-writing the article with Bex Elder, a former student of mine who is now a freelance translator. We write the article via email, as a dialogue and, appropriately enough, the writing of the piece is itself a joyful experience, while the context of the pandemic makes it seem more relevant rather than less and, somehow, expands our emotional range. I’m reluctant to look for silver linings but perhaps one benefit of the current situation is that it has become easier for us to acknowledge and discuss our feelings and our emotional needs.
The last of my trio of commitments is a Zoom webinar for the Spanish network of the Institute of Translation and Interpreting. A few months ago, I didn’t even know what Zoom was. At the start of lockdown, it seemed like a Godsend. That lasted about two days. I don’t know how my kids do it, class after class, day after day, week after week. I can hardly bear it. Far from offering me a respite, Zoom deepens my sadness and sense of isolation. I only survive an interminable parents’ meeting at my daughter’s school by switching off the video and making progress with a 1000-piece jigsaw of some Labrador puppies. “Be kind to yourself!” is my new motto.
I am giving this webinar rather than attending it, though, so there is no question of turning off my camera so nobody can see me sorting jigsaw pieces into yellow, black and chocolate-coloured piles. I will be presenting with my colleagues Victoria Patience and Simon Berrill, about our continuing professional development partnership, a collaborative arrangement called RevClub, where we exchange feedback on each other’s translations, meet up for a monthly virtual slam (Victoria lives in Argentina and Simon is based in Catalonia) and generally share knowledge, advice and support. If Zoom felt like it was going to save my lockdown ass but didn’t, then RevClub definitely has. I feel incredibly grateful (blessed, even!) to have two close colleagues who are also friends – and with whom I already have a virtual relationship. We’re used to communicating by email, WhatsApp and Skype, so it doesn’t feel like an imposition to do so now. Preparing for the webinar gives us a focus for our conversations and I soon go from dread to expectation. Both the preparation and the webinar itself leave me with a feeling of connection and human warmth. Although I also wonder what it says about me that I am happy to give webinars but not to attend them. Actually, I don’t wonder at all. I know that it speaks to my need for attention, my low-level narcissism. In the spirit of being kind to myself, I resolve to extend that generosity to my inner narcissist.
A friend has advised me to structure my day with routines; another recommends yoga; a third suggests physical exercise. I download a beginner’s yoga course for my mornings and some keep fit sessions for the afternoons. Every morning, I roll out my yoga mat although, truth be told, mainly I just get into position and start crying. Soon, the yoga mat has become shorthand in the intimate language of lockdown. “How are you doing today?” my friend and I ask. “A bit yoga mat,” we reply, and we understand that the morning has been spent in tears. My afternoon keep-fit routine is less emotionally taxing and consistts mainly of me performing star jumps in my underpants.
I pass my childless days in my flat, drinking tea on the little balcony that overlooks a large bare concrete courtyard, occasionally venturing up onto the roof with a beer in the evening. I am glad I only do this for alternate weeks, returning to my kids for a dose of sanity and society in the intervening periods. By an odd coincidence, the protagonist of the play I am translating at the moment – Paco Gámez’s Inquilino (Numancia 9, 2º A) – is similarly constrained. The protagonist, also called Paco, is a millennial, struggling to keep his head above water in the gig economy, when he receives an email informing him of a 50 per cent hike in his rent. What follows is drama and autofiction, documentary theatre and surrealism, as Paco is simultaneously engaged with reality – pleading with the rental agency for a compromise, looking for alternative accommodation, working out how he can make ends meet – and in denial of it – fantasizing about performing a grand gesture of resistance, barricading himself into the flat, taking up arms against his oppressor.
As the play progresses, Paco spends more and more time in the flat in a futile attempt to assert his ownership of the space. His behaviour becomes increasingly erratic. In one scene, he masturbates on the balcony. This makes me feel less bad about the possibility that my neighbours may have seen me performing star jumps in my pants.
I was a little wary of embarking on this project just now, and nearly postponed it in favour of another more gregarious play about an argumentative family at a wedding. But I am glad I decided to press ahead. it feels like a form of therapy as Paco and me keep each other company. This is, anyway, only a heightened version of what draws me to theatre translation: the way it requires you to inhabit a text, to mount a virtual production of it in your head and then make whatever changes are necessary to enable the translation to work as a theatre script in its own right. This referral to something outside the text – performability but also producibility and coherence – is a constant source of dynamism and offers me a degree of creative freedom I don’t normally have with prose. Paradoxically, I am offered further freedom by the fact that this is not a paid commission. it’s a text I’ve chosen because I like it, because I hit it off with the author, because I can imagine someone wanting to produce it. And this means I am not ‘just’ a translator but also a creative partner, in some small way a promoter of the project.
I want the translation to allow readers (directors, producers) to see the potential for interpretation and further adaptation, not to give the impression that there is only one way to handle this text. And at the same time I need to make sure that the dialogue has rhythm and impact, that it switches between the poetic and the profane, that Paco’s voice comes through… This is particularly important with this piece, which is more or less a dramatic monologue. Most theatre writing relies on the energy that comes from different characters playing off one another. Take that out and there is a risk of monotony. So the energy has to come from other sources.
I’m a very intuitive translator and most of my discussion of or writing about my work is really a post-hoc commentary on pragmatic or even subconscious decisions. I go for what works on the page – or in my head – and analyse it, if at all, later. Cultural references are the exception to this rule. The street where Paco lives, Calle Numancia, is named after a Celtiberian settlement (Numantia in English) that was besieged by the Roman conquerors of the peninsula. At the end of an eight-month siege, the inhabitants committed suicide rather than surrender. Numantia, then, is a symbol of desperate resistance in the face of overwhelming odds. This is not the street’s real name. Paco has chosen it for symbolic reasons but also because he insists – out of pomposity but also out of necessity – on his cultured status. I toy (ridiculously in retrospect) with the idea of replacing Numantia with some other more familiar siege reference. In the end, I keep it and use a couple of different techniques to make it work for a new audience.
In the original, Paco simply remarks that he has changed the name “because he wants to” (porque quiero), “to raise the tone” (para elevar esto un poco):
Perdón, hago ahora un inciso. La calle real se llama Medellín, está al lado del metro Iglesia. Aquí la llamo Numancia porque quiero, para elevar esto un poco. Pero mi casa, alquilada, está en la calle Medellín, barrio de Chamberí, castizo y rancio. Ahí es donde llego ahora, ¿vale? Calle Numancia, 9, 2º A.
In my translation, I expand his explanation a little:
Excuse me but I’m going to digress for a moment. The street’s real name is Medellín, next to Iglesia metro station. I’ve called it Numantia here to give it a classical touch. You know. The siege. The heroic but doomed last stand of the indigenous people against the Roman invaders. But my rented flat is in Medellín Street, in the Chamberí district, Madrid through and through, nothing classy. So here I am, okay? Number 9, Numantia Street. 2nd Floor. Flat 1.
In the final scene I make a more substantial change. All over the city, cash-strapped tenants throw themselves from their balconies, in an act of collective suicidal defiance, while Paco declaims to the police:
Las sirenas de policía iluminan la calle Numancia. Yo estoy de pie sobre la barandilla del balcón y me sujeto con las manos contra el muro del edificio.
Queridos policías, soldados romanos que cercan mi torre, sé que don Juan Carlos Azcárate es vuestro dueño, vuestro Escipión, y que no vendrá. ¿Para qué?
I add a few lines to Paco’s play:
The police sirens light up Numantia Street. I’m standing on the balcony rail; my feet on the railing, my hands on the wall of the building behind me. I address the policemen.
Roman legionaries besieging my fortress of Numantia, I know Juan Carlos Alcaraz is your Scipio, and he won’t deign to come. And so I speak to you, his minions:
You plunder, butcher and steal and you call these things an empire. You make a desert and you call it peace.
But the lines are not mine; they are the words of the Caledonian chieftain, Calgacus, speaking to his troops before they faced the Romans at the Bottle of Mons Graupius. Or, rather, they are the words attributed to Calgacus by the Roman historian, Tacitus. Who may, anyway, have invented not just Calgacus’s words but his very existence.
I like this sense of collaboration across space and time – me, Paco, Calgacus, Tacitus and whoever translated Tacitus into English. And I enjoy adding a little Scottish touch to the play, putting Calgacus’s rebellious words into Paco’s mouth as we stand on our balconies.
At the end of the play, his fantasy of resistance over, Paco meekly hands over the keys, moves out of the flat and waits for his deposit.
May comes to an end and I am still here. It’s been a hard month, one in which I have been both amazed by my resilience and terrified by my fragility. I have survived thanks, above all, to the company of my children. But also, when I have been on my own, through the strange immersive therapy of translation. I have found, if not joy, then something to hold onto, to engage with, to lose myself in, even – tentatively – to express myself through. And at the end I have something to show for it. A the end of a month in which I have wept on a yoga mat and done star jumps in my underpants, I also have a play.
We are two weeks into lockdown and I have the sense that work is slowing down around me, although for the time being I have plenty to keep me busy. For this month, I have some edits to incorporate, two more paid samples to translate, a romantic modernist poem to produce, two short stories for young readers as part of an academic project comparing the reception of bowdlerized versus “warts and all” versions of the same text, various bits and pieces for regular clients – and my big corporate copywriting job.
I’m slightly worried about immersing myself in project management and admin, given both the general circumstances (there is no end in sight for Covid19) and my own personal situation. I am aware of my ambivalence not just towards the nitty-gritty of it all (file management, endless emails, budgets and schedules) but, perhaps more than that, towards what it says about me. I am actually quite good at this activity that also makes me feel anxious and, occasionally, bored. I am like an anarchist with a guilty yearning to be a traffic warden.
As the project gets going, though, I remember why I was drawn to it. I put together a small team – a close friend and colleague who lives round the corner, and two fine Spanish translators, neither of whom I have ever met in person. I will split the English copywriting with my friend and we will review and edit one another’s work. This friend is self-taught and works almost exclusively for one client, a news service. As far as the wider translation community is concerned, he might as well not exist. And yet he is one of the very best translators I know. By contrast, last year, I did a line-by-line comparison of the first chapter of a high-profile translation (a literary novel that was also a bestseller). It was more or less readable but closer inspection revealed a mixture of clumsiness, omissions and a sprinkling of basic errors. Needless to say, it was the work of a highly-regarded translator. (One reviewer acerbically noted that the book had found the translator it deserved, although I’m not sure that any book deserves to be badly translated.) This is one of the supremely odd effects of the public/private nature of translation. It’s as if you could go to the Nou Camp to see Messi play, only to find that he is not just having an off-day but is simply not very good. And then you wander down to the local park to watch a Sunday league game and realize that the bald guy in midfield is as good as anyone on the Barcelona team (and certainly streets ahead of that overrated Argentinian bloke).
Lockdown creates a strange rhythm, heightening the polarization of my alternate weeks of being with and without my kids. When I am on my own, I have limited opportunities to leave the flat. I bring one of my dogs to the bachelor pad in order to have an excuse to break the curfew, I drink coffee on the balcony and beer on the roof. And I work. When I am with the kids, lockdown softens. I am back in the family flat, I have two dogs, plenty of shopping expeditions and, best of all, the company of my children (who are studying from home). Work is lower on my list of priorities.
This week I am going through the copy editor’s changes, suggestions and queries on the manuscript of Crocodile Tears, the Uruguayan thriller I finished translating in January. Translators seem to have mixed feelings about being edited. I don’t know if this reflects bad experiences, insecurities or their attachment to the illusion of control and the artistic endeavour as individual pursuit. I always enjoy being edited, I pride myself on the fact, even. Although it occurs to me that perhaps it is not such a virtue, that my enjoyment may draw on a certain arrogance or even reflect a deep-seated need for attention (satisfied, in this case, through being the target of copious tracked changes and extensive comments in Microsoft Word). Whatever the motive, the edits on Crocodile Tears are a pleasure to go through. Bitter Lemon Press have assigned Sarah Terry to edit the manuscript. I used to be a copy editor myself. I was bad enough that I stopped doing it. But not so bad that I can’t recognize the work of someone who is really good. Reassuringly, there are very few errors in my translation as such, just lots of points where the editor has spotted opportunities for improvement or identified possible snags.
I take most of them on board either directly, by incorporating the editor’s suggestion, or indirectly, by making some other adjustment instead. Sometimes I slice through the Gordian knot and just delete whatever word is causing the problem. It’s important to be able to let go of something in the source text if the price of keeping it is too high.
In addition to providing the chance to carry on improving the text (when I’d exhausted my capacity to improve it on my own), the editing process is really the first external read of my translation. It’s like having a long, rambling conversation about my work with an intelligent, attentive reader.
This month’s paid samples, again with that all-important public funding, are from two non-fiction titles, a category for which I much prefer the Spanish term ensayo, although I’m always slightly disconcerted when such books with a strong personal narrative are referred to as novelas, as they occasionally are. (Have I misunderstood the Spanish terms or has the reviewer not actually read the book? I am never quite sure.) I am translating the first chapter of El analista, Txema Guijarro’s inside account of the political, legal and media storm that surrounded the Snowden and Assange affairs. And I’m also working on an excerpt from El director, David Jiménez’s account of his time as editor-in-chief of Spain’s El mundo newspaper, which has since descended into the gutter and abandoned any pretence of serious journalism.
I enjoy the way that translating non-fiction requires a constant negotiation between the world of the text and the ‘real’ world outside it. How much adjustment – addition, omission, explanation – does the translator need to provide to make the book work for the target audience? Making those adjustments in an unobtrusive but effective manner requires a lot of craft, and is every bit as challenging as translating literary fiction or drama.
I’m also enjoying the stylistic demands of this particular text. The author, Jiménez, was a foreign correspondent who was unexpectedly appointed editor-in-chief of the paper, the owners presumably hoping that his political naivete would make him easy to manipulate while also providing them with cover for their plans. The style, like a lot of the best journalism, draws its energy from treading the delicate line between muscular reportage and cliché. When translating, I strive to do the same. If I obey George Orwell’s dictum (“Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print”), I will flatten the text and destroy the synergy between subject matter and style. If I go too far in the other direction, reaching for fixed phrases and common collocations at every opportunity, I will produce a deadening caricature of the original.
El despacho del director de El Mundo había sido en todo ese tiempo uno de los mayores centros de influencia del país, cortejado por reyes y jueces, ministros y celebridades, escritores y cantantes, caciques y conseguidores.
Here, for decoding purposes, is the DeepL machine translation:
The office of the director of El Mundo had been in all that time one of the biggest centres of influence in the country, courted by kings and judges, ministers and celebrities, writers and singers, chiefs and procurers.
And here’s my take on it:
Throughout that time, the office of El Mundo’s editor-in-chief had been one of the country’s nerve centres, a place visited by kings and judges, ministers and celebrities, writers and singers, party bosses and men in grey suits.
El país vivía, además, el momento de mayor tensión política desde la transición a la democracia, con una economía herida, una elite que se aferraba atemorizada a sus privilegios, nuevos partidos que amenazaban el orden establecido y unos medios de comunicación en su mayoría arrodillados ante el poder, que había aprovechado nuestra fragilidad para organizar el mayor y más coordinado ataque contra la libertad de prensa desde el final de la dictadura del general Franco.
Again, the DeepL machine translation version:
The country was also experiencing the greatest political tension since the transition to democracy, with a wounded economy, an elite that clung to its privileges in fear, new parties that threatened the established order and a media that was mostly on its knees in the face of power, which had taken advantage of our fragility to organise the biggest and most coordinated attack on the freedom of the press since the end of General Franco’s dictatorship.
And my translation:
To make matters worse, Spain was in the throes of its greatest political crisis since the transition to democracy in the late 1970s. The economy was floundering, the elite were clinging grimly to their privileges, new parties were threatening the established order – and most of the media were pandering to those in power, who had seized upon the sector’s weakness to launch the largest, most coordinated assault on press freedom since the death of General Franco.
Like a lot of people, I have a love–hate relationship with social media. I’ve pulled back my presence on Facebook, in particular. However, I still enjoy the way that Twitter, at its best, provides a platform for discussing translation, a place where I can share bite-sized examples of my work, ask for help, connect with colleagues. Under lockdown, I’m very much aware that Twitter is a double-edged sword. It’s a vital window onto the outside world, a place where I can have conversations on days when, perhaps, I won’t meet anyone in person. It is also, though, an unwelcome source of news and rumour and speculation, all of which overloads me and makes me feel anxious.
Doomscrolling apart, another thing I like about Twitter is that it’s a place where Spanish and English merge, and I often combine the two languages in the same tweet or thread, particularly when I’m tweeting about my work. It’s always fun to write about non-obvious translations and I really enjoy engaging with both translators and non-translators. This month, I publish a long thread on the way Spanish daily usage is peppered with (not particularly rude) references to genitalia, showing both literal and pragmatic translations.
The thread goes viral, with 12,000 likes and well over a million views. I have also picked up around 1,000 new followers. Apparently there is an audience out there keen for as much bilingual smut as they can find.
The month gets off to a good start. A longstanding client has confirmed that a big project will be going ahead. The job involves producing bilingual content for a section of the corporate website, a kind of online museum. It will be a bit different from my usual work. I will be copywriting into English from a Spanish brief, and coordinating the rest of the project: translation of English copy back into Spanish, editing in both languages, terminology etc. I’m looking forward to the variety, and to putting together a team of colleagues. And it provides me with a degree of security for the rest of the year. After a little discussion, I agree a frankly unrealistic deadline, fairly confident that the bottlenecks will be at their end rather than mine.
On 13 March we get the news we have all been dreading, expecting and perhaps hoping for. As the numbers of cases and deaths rise, Spain has declared a state of emergency in an attempt to curb the spread of Covid19. Although the epicentres are in Madrid, Barcelona and the Basque Country, a lockdown has been imposed in Andalusia too. My own feeling, I confess, is one of relief. This suspension of normality is strangely welcome. My own normality was suspended last summer when my wife and I separated. For the last nine months I’ve been living a divided existence: half of the time in the family home with my kids and my dogs, the other half unrooted, back in Scotland or in a rented flat nearby. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, in my ex-wife’s home town. I need to make plans for the future but I am still clinging to the past. Our flat has become the setting for a peculiar French farce of modern family life. Once a week I exit stage left when my ex arrives; a week later the process is repeated in reverse to mark my return. This is not so much co-parenting as part-time single parenting. I’m at my best when I’m with my kids: I feel grounded, accompanied, I know who I am, I have a purpose. But the solo periods are more difficult. I am too distraught to enjoy my freedom, a heartbroken bachelor rattling around in his pad, the space filled with the lustrous green of cheap houseplants from Lidl, my time filled with translation. Thankfully, I can translate in almost any emotional state. It is, if not therapy, then at least a soothing balm.
The suspension of time, this feeling of the rest of the world coming into synch with my own private catastrophe, has an unexpected effect. I am momentarily energized. During the first week of lockdown, I write a short story. In Spanish. The choice of language is pragmatic. My playwright friends are all writing short pandemic-themed dramatic monologues – in Catalan or Spanish – and I want to join in. But writing in this language – which is not “mine” – is constraining and thus, paradoxically, liberating. I am restricted, I have less range, a smaller vocabulary, less control over different registers, less ability to step outside of my own idiolect into the wider language beyond. I find myself in a linguistic lockdown, essential purchases and dog-walking only, a simplicity that allows my writing to flow.
I finish the piece and share it with my colleagues. Normally, I channel their writing from Spanish into English: they write, I translate. Today, I have broken the rules. I am writing, not translating. And I am doing it in Spanish, not English. In translation, I reveal very little of myself. In writing, I can reveal as much as I want.
Writing in Spanish, though, throws up another problem. Most of my writing is not published in the traditional sense. I post it on my website and then share it via social media or email. This is a piece I would normally share with friends and family but by writing in Spanish I have created a barrier. And so I must become a translator once again.
Near the start of the piece, my son jokes about how we should deal with people who have brought the virus to Cadiz from Madrid as they flee to their second homes on the coast:
Si escuchas a alguien decir ‘tronco’ por la calle, mátalo ya, quillo.
[= If you hear someone say tronco when you’re out and about, just kill them, quillo]
Quillo is short for chiquillo and is a typical Cadiz term, equivalent, roughly, to ‘mate’ in English. Tronco is a Madrid alternative, somewhat old-fashioned now, the kind of word you might hear on a TV drama set in the Spanish capital in the 1990s.
How do I translate this shibboleth test into English? I can’t leave the words in Spanish but nor can I replace them with English equivalents. In the end, I settle for a non-lexical version:
If you see someone in a Real Madrid top, just kill them.
It’s a clever solution, I think, but I can’t help recognizing that something – rather a lot, in fact – has been lost. My little story is, among other things, about a relationship to place and to language, about how identity changes but is always local. Not much of this is captured by the Real Madrid shirt.
There is more loss to come. Halfway through the story, I have come back from the newly cordoned off beach, my morning dog-walk frustrated, and decide to take the dogs up onto the roof to give them some exercise. I worry about keeping the animals under control as I make my way upstairs with the laundry, a cup of coffee and some home baking:
The bag is too big, the coffee will spill, the dogs will go crazy on the stairs.
But here, too, something has gone astray. In the original I wrote not that the dogs would “go crazy” (volverse locas) but rather, se van a desmadrar. Literally, they will become unmothered. There is no such word as “unmother” in English, which is, no doubt, one of the reasons why I like it so much in Spanish, its lack of a direct equivalent making it more vivid, more salient, a fresh image for my non-native mind. It is not, though, the dogs who are in danger of becoming unmothered but rather my children, who have been alternately unmothered and unfathered on a weekly basis for the best part of a year and for the foreseeable future.
Of the many silly things that are said about translation, perhaps the silliest of all is the insistence that nothing is untranslatable, the reluctance to acknowledge the inevitability of loss. But translation, like life, is, among other things, a process of managing loss. Sometimes, often, that loss may feel negligible or may simply be outweighed by what we add. When I translate a rambling, verbose piece of academic prose into clean, flowing English, I am confident that my version is better than the original, that I have cast the author in a better light than, perhaps, he deserves, that there is little loss and much gain.
Sometimes, I prefer to think less in terms of loss and gain than of change. I refuse on principle to produce ‘literal’ translations of stage plays. My theatre translations always invoke a version of the play, a production that takes place inside my head as I translate. I do whatever is necessary to make that work, to give the characters their voices, to mark the rhythms of the drama, to exploit the potential offered by the target language. There is loss here too, to be sure, but so much more change and transformation that I don’t need to dwell on it.
In other cases, more perhaps than we care to admit, it is the loss that dominates, at least during the process of translation. Maybe, after it is done, we will be able to look back, to appreciate the necessity of change, the inevitability of loss, to appreciate, even, the silver lining of those little gains and the new thing that has been created.
The second half of March brings news of the postponement of a couple of projects. One of these is a regular report on the state of the European Union. The client has already invested in the writing stage; translation is a small part of the overall budget and without it everything else will have been a waste of time and money. I’m fairly confident that this job will resurface later in the year; perhaps, if I’m lucky, it will coincide with a quiet spell. I’m more disappointed about the other project. It was a comic about women scientists, my first full-length comic translation, my first job for a new client. For the moment it has been put on hold but I suspect this job won’t resurface. It’s hard not to worry about the pandemic’s likely impact on work – and I feel more grateful than ever for that large copywriting project.
At the end of March, I have a reading of my translation of Jauría (the documentary drama I translated in January about the Manada gang rape case). The reading takes place under the auspices of Out of the Wings, a London-based collective for theatre translators working between Spanish and Portuguese and English.
Screenshot of Out of the Wings Zoom reading of Jauría
Out of the Wings member, William Gregory, deserves the credit (or the blame!) for getting me involved in theatre translation. It’s the least lucrative but most enjoyable part of what I do and, for the moment, I am trying to create a portfolio of work and use that to build up a network of contacts in the hope that, at some point, my addiction to translating dialogue will start to pay for itself.
The reading was originally due to take place in London but has now shifted online. The script is read, via Zoom, by a cast of professional actors, and the reading is followed by a discussion by the members of the collective and anyone else who wants to attend. Perhaps surprisingly, for me the main benefit of participating in a reading such as this is not the opportunity to revise my translation in the wake of hearing it performed. I make few if any changes at this stage; at most, the odd minor infelicity that has slipped through. I’m perfectly happy, though, for directors and actors to make whatever changes they deem necessary. Each line of translated dialogue ceases to be work in progress when I settle on a version I like. For some lines, most even, that happens at draft one; for others, it takes a little longer. But I think that this letting go is, really, a recognition of the collaborative nature of translation. The collaboration is asynchronous but it is essential to the process. What else is a translation but a collaboration between translator and author, regardless of whether the author has any direct involvement (answering queries or resolving doubts) or is even still alive?
In theatre, there is an acceptance that the finished script (whether translated or not) is merely the basis for a further collaboration, between director and actors, which has as its result a performance on the stage, in which the collaboration occurs between actors and audience.
The collaboration is less immediately apparent in written translation – there are no collective spaces to parallel the rehearsal room and the stage. But it is still there: between the translator and the author; with the involvement of publishers, agents, editors and proofreaders; and, finally, between all of these and the reader. I wonder if the translator’s (or the author’s) frequent reluctance to let go of a final text is part of a denial of this collaboration, an insistence that they and they alone have created the text, a delusion of control over how the text will be experienced and, hopefully, enjoyed.
In A Wedding to Die For (La boda de tus muertos) by Andalusian playwright Pablo Canosales, the López family – the parents Jesús and Sofía, and their two children Mari Tere and Josete – attend the wedding reception of the oldest of the three children, Pablo.
Time stands still – as they drive towards the reception through the baking countryside, as they arrive, are seated humiliatingly at the back of the room, are treated to the bizarre ‘service’ of their dedicated waiter, Aurelio, it is always 7 o’clock.
The action moves from tragedy to farce to comedy, and back again. And one thing is clear. This family is held together not by love but by resentment and disappointment and loathing. Can they break free? What will happen if they do?
MARI TERE: Think. You’re the one who suggested the game. You must have something to say.
Pause. Abstraction. Silence. Wind. A strong wind engulfs SOFÍA. A mother who flies with the wind. The wind takes possession of her. She takes possession of the wind. A rising apocalypse.
SOFÍA: I like the bride. I mean, she doesn’t look so great but, well, she’s still the bride. And we always say the bride looks beautiful. Even if it’s a lie. Even if she’s stealing your son forever. And I like my Pablo; he’s so handsome. But then he’s handsome whatever he wears, and even more so dressed as the groom. And even though we’re a long way away, I like to see him smiling with joy like only he does. Although I keep losing sight of him, with all these people in the way. I also like the dress the bride’s mother is wearing. If it’s uglier than mine, I laugh. But if it’s prettier, I get really pissed off. I can’t help it.
The wedding ceremony. When people read at the altar. The priest with his goblet of wine. I like the bit when he says: “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” There’s always the possibility that somebody will ruin the moment. The organ. The photographer. People crying. People singing. The food. What is it with food at weddings? It never ends. The decorations. They’re so important. Everybody loves them. And I like asking people, “How are you? How are you? How are you?”
And explaining what it was like, organizing all of this, even though I haven’t organized anything. But I would like to have done it for my son. And I like the music at weddings. Music that allows you to let yourself go, even if it’s only on the inside. And the centrepieces. Real flowers. I don’t like the plastic ones, they look cheap, you can tell they’re plastic. And the tableware, which doesn’t seem so important and people don’t think about it, but it is important because you eat your food from it. It has to be white. And pretty. And simple.
I like simple weddings. And I like elaborate ones. I like weddings. I like all kinds of weddings! Because they’re all happy. Or they should be. And I like prawns. There have to be lots of prawns. Local, not imported. And a free bar. There has to be a free bar. For the young folks, above all, but for the older ones too. I like the guests. They make me feel good. The guests should be happy. More than a hundred but less than five hundred. With people smiling, even if they don’t want to or they can’t. I like that too. Because weddings are for smiling.
Envelopes with money. Envelopes without money. Envelopes with the name of the person who’s given it written on them. And envelopes with no name. Full of intrigue. And disappointment. And disaster. It doesn’t matter. If you can at least cover the costs. Agreeing among friends how much money to give to the happy couple. I like the way, the more money you give, the more love it seems to show.
Stag nights and hen parties. I like people losing control at stag nights and hen parties. The money from the wedding paying for the honeymoon. The smokers’ area. The cigars. I don’t like cigars but the smell of cigar smoke at a wedding makes me happy. Who knows why? Even though I don’t smoke. The condom machines in the bathrooms. The way the floor ends up all slippy and slidy.
Impossible high heels. Uncomfortable dresses. People changing their shoes halfway through. Perfume. Wedding make-up and wedding hair-dos. Flamboyant ties and ridiculous bow-ties. The crazy hairstyles at weddings. Layers and layers of make-up at weddings. People getting all dolled up to go to weddings. People getting drunk at weddings. People eating things at weddings that they’d never eat at home. People who say they go hungry at weddings.
People dancing without a care in the world at weddings. People dancing on their own at weddings. People complaining at weddings. People who do lines of coke at weddings. People who go crazy at weddings. People who fight and swear at weddings. The lovers of the bride and the groom at weddings.
People feeling each other up beneath the table at a wedding. Cheating on somebody at a wedding. The bride’s garter, I know it’s tacky, but I like it. The expensive bouquet that gets thrown in the air so that four tarts can fight over it without a scrap of dignity. The bloody kids running all over the place, knocking the waiters over and ruining everything.
The stupid stains on everyone’s wedding clothes. People who come to the wedding because they can’t get out of it. I like it when the wedding invitation doesn’t feel like an obligation. People who think they’re better than you at weddings. People you don’t know at weddings. Those people? Why the hell are they here, anywhere? The relatives who have to come to the wedding even though you don’t speak to them. I love the gossip at weddings. People with their mouths full who spit on you when they talk at weddings. People who shout at weddings. The sad single people at weddings. The divorcees at weddings. The virgins at weddings. The widows and widowers at weddings. The wife-beaters who pretend they’re nice at weddings. The ones who have filthy sex in the bathrooms at weddings. The karaoke at weddings. If only there was a karaoke with an infinite selection of songs so we could all drown in music.
Ah! There should be a photographer at every table at this wedding. I’d love that. I’d go mad! Mad! If there was a photographer at every single table and he could capture every moment of happiness at this wedding! Are you listening to me? Every single moment of happiness! Just the happy moments! Here! I wish there was a photographer here! Right here. Next to me. (She sighs) But I’d need a different family for that.
MARI TERE: Can we change the game?
JESÚS: Please! Let’s change the game and maybe that way your mother will stop talking shit.
Lapland is a play about truth and lies, knowledge and illusion, home and exile, identity and loss, innocence and maturity.
The action takes place on Christmas Eve. Monica and Ramón, and their son, Pablo, have travelled from Spain to spend the holidays with Monica´s sister, Nuria, her Finnish husband, Olavi, and their daughter, Ana. They want to give Pablo the best Christmas possible, in the land of Santa Claus.
There is only one problem: Ana has just informed Pablo that Father Christmas doesn’t exist.
As the evening develops, the characters struggle to find a way through the clash of cultures, their shared histories, the lies they have told each other – and the lies they have told themselves.
RAMÓN: Ana didn’t just tell him Father Christmas doesn’t exist; she also gave him evidence. The number of children in the world, the time it would take him to visit each house… She proved it was scientifically impossible for him to reach everyone. And she told him that the man who was going to bring the presents tonight wasn’t Father Christmas but her neighbour Toivo in disguise.
MONICA: Christ, what a brat!
RAMÓN: Basically, we’re screwed.
MONICA: We’ve got to find a way to save it!
OLAVI: But what is it that you want to save?
MONICA: My son’s childhood!
OLAVI: Do you really think it’s so important?
MONICA: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! I HAD KIDS SO THAT I COULD CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!
OLAVI: See how you shout when it’s not necessary?
MONICA: It certainly is bloody necessary, Olavi! Pablo is only five! There was no need for him to find out yet. I want him to carry on feeling that tingle of excitement I used to get on Christmas Day, a feeling I hadn’t had again until he was born! I want him to believe there’s a little bit of magic in this world of ours. Yes: magic. That just because you can’t see something, can’t touch it…
My translation year begins with Jauría, Jordi Casanovas’s verbatim drama fashioned from the statements of the victim and perpetrators of the Pamplona gang rape case that shook Spain in 2016. Although not graphic, it is nevertheless harrowing to translate, with the text offering a claustrophobic insight into the way a group of peers normalized their violent misogyny, a normalization that was mirrored in the legal system and in wider Spanish society. I produce my first draft in a strange, distanced state, protecting myself from the traumatic potential of the text. I am a little wary when I embark on the second draft – will my disengagement show through in the translation? – but the translation is fundamentally sound.
While I worked on it, I was focused mostly on how to deal with the source script, which consists of pieces of verbatim text, taken from statements, court testimony and WhatsApp conversations. Transcribed dialogue is always strange, full of repetitions, false starts, grammatical slips, incoherence. There’s no easy way to reproduce this in translation – I’d argue it’s neither possible nor desirable – and what I aim for instead is something highly naturalistic but also, perhaps, more self-consciously ‘voicey’ than the original. I don’t think it makes much sense to talk of verbatim drama in translation. Better to accept, embrace even, the necessary transformation.
En ese momento estaba totalmente en shock, no sabía qué hacer, sólo quería que pasara y cerré los ojos para no enterarme de nada y que todo pasara rápido.
At that point, I was completely in shock, I didn’t know what to do, I just wanted it to be over and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be aware of it, so it would all be over quickly.
Next up is a series of short texts for a longstanding client, a bioethics NGO for whom I translate press releases, newsletters and the like. I used to do more work for this client – extended academic pieces – but they cut back when they realized hardly anybody was reading these and decided, understandably, to direct their budget elsewhere. I often think back to those readerless texts. In their own way they taught me a valuable lesson about the need to appreciate and enjoy the inherent integrity of any translation assignment, the process, a job well done, regardless of feedback, recognition or public acknowledgement.
The middle of the month brings a fun little encounter. It comes to me through my website. A Canadian food writer, Taras Grescoe, is coming to Cadiz, where I live, to do some research on a piece he is writing about garum, the fermented fish sauce that Cadiz exported across the Roman Empire. It is having an unexpected revival as culinary archaeologists seek to recreate it in their labs, drawing on information in Roman cookery books and the remains of amphorae of garum recovered from Pompei, and innovative local chefs incorporate it into their cooking. Taras contacts me to ask if I can put him in touch with a local interpreter for some meetings he has scheduled. It’s short notice so instead I suggest that I accompany him and he can pay me in kind. I’m not an interpreter, I explain, but I’m au fait with the local cuisine and can handle the broadest of local accents. The next day we meet with a local chef whose accent is as thick as they come. I’m relieved to realise that my culinary vocabulary is on point, and I don’t hesitate before explaining that we are about to eat “flying-fish roe marinated in clementine juice”.
In between this assignment and the next one, I undergo some heavy duty dental work: the insertion of a screw that will eventually hold an implant in place. My jaw is swollen and I’m cursing my timing. I’m about to have a tasting menu at the best restaurant in town but I won’t be able to eat a thing. Fortunately, when I arrive, I realize that the tasting menu is also the perfect invalid food. Small servings of local fish (much of it raw), interspersed with fancy foams and mousses. The dinner ends with ice cream delicately flavoured with garum (fermented-fish ice cream, in other words). It is unexpectedly delicious.
My next project is a wodge of documentation for an invitation to tender for the contract to print biometric ID cards for a government in Central America. This is for a translation agency, the last one I work for. When I started out, agencies like this provided a large part of my income but this has changed as I’ve gradually built up a portfolio of direct clients and pursued my interest in literary translation. My rates have gone up and my availability has gone down, and our ways have slowly parted. This feels good although there is a tinge of sadness. The agency sector feels as if it’s in trouble, crushed by commoditisation, low rates, the misuse of machine translation. It’s true that it has colluded in these developments, of course, but I can’t help wondering if things could have gone differently.
My last project for the month is to finalize my translation of Crocodile Tears, a thriller by Uruguayan writer Mercedes Rosende, which will be published by Bitter Lemon Press in 2021. It’s a great piece of writing and it feels like a real privilege to be asked to translate it. I finished my first draft before Christmas, so I am revising. I try to spread the process out so I can go through several more versions with little rests between each stage, alternating between screen and paper, interspersing other jobs if possible. A lot of translators talk about doing a rough first draft that they would never show to anyone, then making far-reaching changes. I’ve even seen some translators refer to a deliberately hyper-literal first draft which is then improved. That’s not my process. For me, translation is at once both reading and writing and I strive to solve as many problems as I can first time round, chipping away until I’m more or less happy. Occasionally I leave a rough translation as a placeholder, but really this just another way of saying that I haven’t started the translation yet. And, of course, I make lots of changes as I go through versions two, three, four and more. But I don’t really see how either a genuinely rough translation or a hyper-literal one is compatible with the simultaneous attention to source and target that, for me, is the essence of translation. Each to their own, I guess.
One of the interesting things about translating from Spanish into English is that both languages operate in a transatlantic space. But it’s a mistake, I think, to get hung up on simplistic notions of British versus American English, let alone to map these onto European and Latin American Spanish. The reality, thankfully, is far more complex and interesting. Better for translators to view that variety as a resource to draw upon, something we can use to create voice, tone, contrast, rhythm…
Toma un pedazo de papa y lo sumerge en mayonesa, engulle, mira a su espalda, unta dulce de leche en dos dedos, la lengua chasquea, saborea, toma una albóndiga, salsa, devora, arroz, otra albóndiga, más salsa, mayonesa, labios, dientes, el dedo en la mermelada, chupa, sorbe, lengua, dedos, se da prisa y empuja, mira atrás, a la puerta, otro pedazo de pollo que traga casi sin masticar, dulce, puré, algo está mal, se apura, traga más, introduce todos los dedos en la salsa, paladar, lengua, labios, dientes, sorbe, traga, una vez, otra.
She takes a chunk of potato and dips it in the mayonnaise, swallows, looks behind her, smears two fingers with dulce de leche; she smacks her lips, takes a meatball, some sauce, devours it, rice, another meatball, more sauce, mayonnaise, lips, teeth, the finger in the jam, sucking, slurping, tongue, fingers; she’s in a hurry and pushes it down, she looks behind her, at the door; another piece of chicken, which she swallows almost without chewing; something’s wrong, she eats faster, swallows more, plunges all her fingers into the sauce; palate, lips, teeth; slurps, swallows, again and again.
On the last weekend of the month, I travel up to Madrid to see some theatre and meet up with some playwrights. On Friday I catch Jauría. It’s strange to see it being performed on stage in Spanish after I’ve spent so long hearing it in my head in English, but I’m also reassured. I come away with a strong sense that the English play in my head (and on the page) is true to the original version and that the differences are necessary and not a betrayal. On Saturday, I catch Inquilino, written, directed and performed by Paco Gámez, and a play I’m hoping to translate at some point this year. And on Sunday I meet up with a couple more writers and see Mariano Rochman’s Noches de hotel, another play I would like to have translated. (Realistic about the limits on my time and budget, I have instead put the playwright in touch with another translator.) On the train back to Cadiz, I resolve to visit Madrid or Barcelona every couple of months during 2020.
Winner of the City of Malaga Prize 2019, Roberto Osa’s latest play, Correspondencia, is a dark comedy set before and after a funeral in small-town Spain. As the wake progresses, a family’s secrets are gradually revealed.
Everyone rushes to view the deceased. SILENCE.
MARTA: They’ve done a good job with her.
EUGENIO: She looks a bit stern.
JUAN: She always looked a bit stern.
CARLOS: She doesn’t seem… She doesn’t look… She looks odd.
JUAN: She looks dead.
MARTA: I think she looks beautiful. A bit stern, maybe, but beautiful.
CARLOS: Her mouth is… I don’t know…
CARETAKER: We put a touch of glue on their lips to prevent the evacuation of fluids during the wake.