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Обсуждение. Семинар №9
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| Silk-Wire | Дата: Пятница, 26.10.2012, 00:18 | Сообщение # 1 |
 The Vorpal Blade
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| Across the street, a car was slowing down. There were two men in it, and the one on the outside was leaning out looking at street numbers. It stopped right in front of our place, and the two men got out, one on each side. They were coppers; it was written all over them, even if they didn't wear uniforms.
This is it, I thought.
Now I'm going to know.
I went across and followed them into the building. I didn't try to catch up; I didn't want to talk to them. I just wanted to listen when they started talking.
I followed them up the stairs, half a flight behind. On the third floor one of them waited while the other walked down the hall and looked at numbers on doors. "Must be next floor," he said.
The one at the head of the stairs turned and looked at me. I had to keep on coming. He said, "Hey, kid, what floor's fifteen on?"
"Next one," I said. "Fourth floor."
They kept on going, and now I was only a few steps behind them. Like that we went from the third floor to the fourth. The one just ahead of me had a fat behind and his trousers were shiny in the seat. They stretched tight every time he took a step up. It's funny; that's all I remember about how they looked, either of them, except that they were big men and coppers. I never saw their faces. I looked at them, but I never saw them.
They stopped in front of fifteen and knocked, and I kept on going right past them and up the flight to the fifth, the top, floor. I kept on going until I reached the top and took a few steps, and then I reached down and pulled off my shoes and went back halfway down the stairs, keeping out of sight back against the wall. I could hear and they couldn't see me.
I could hear everything; I could hear the shuffle of slippers as Mom came to the door; I could hear the door creak just a little as it opened; and in the second of silence that followed, I could hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen through the opened door. I could hear soft, barefoot steps that would be Gardie corning out of her room to the turn in the hall by the bathroom where, without being seen, she could hear who was at the door.
"Wallace Hunter," said one of the coppers. His voice was rumbly like an el car a long way off. "Wallace Hunter live here?"
I could hear Mom start breathing faster; I guess that was enough of an answer, and I guess the look on her face must have answered his "You--uh--Mrs. Wallace Hunter?" because he went right on. "'Fraid it's bad news, ma'am. He was--uh--"
"An accident? He's hurt--or--"
"He's dead, ma'am. He was dead when we found him. That is--we think it's your husband. We want you to come and identi--that is, as soon as you're able. There's no hurry, ma'am. We can come in and wait till you're over the shock of--"
"How?" Mom's voice wasn't hysterical. It was flat, dead. "How?"
"Well--uh--"
The other copper's voice spoke. The voice that had asked me what floor fifteen was on.
"Robbery, ma'am," he said. "Slugged and rolled in an alley. About two o'clock last night, but his wallet was gone so it wasn't till this morning we found out who--Catch her, Hank!"
Hank must not have been fast enough. There was a hell of a loud thud. I heard Gardie's voice, excited, then, and the coppers going on in. I don't know why, but I started for the door, my shoes still in my hand.
It closed in my face.
I went back to the stairs and sat down again. I put my shoes on, and then I just sat there. After awhile someone started down the stairs from the floor above. It was Mr. Fink, the upholsterer, who lived in the flat directly over ours. I moved close against the wall to give him plenty of room to pass me.
At the bottom of the flight, he stopped, one hand on the banister post and looked back at me. I didn't look at him; I watched his hand. It was a flabby hand, with dirty nails.
He said, "Something wrong, Ed?"
"No," I told him.
He took his hand off the post and then put it on again. "Why you sitting there, huh? Lost your job or something?"
"No," I said. "Nothing's wrong."
"Hell there ain't. You wouldn't be sitting there. Your old man get drunk and kick you out or--"
"Let me alone," I said. "Beat it. Let me alone."
"Okay, if you want to get snotty about it. I was just trying to be nice to you. You could be a good kid, Ed. You oughta break away from that drunken bum of a father of yours--"
I got up and started down the steps toward him. I think I was going to kill him; I don't know. He took a look at my face and his face changed. I never saw a guy get so scared so quick. He turned around and walked off fast. I stayed standing there until I heard him going down the next flight.
Then I sat down again and put my head in my hands.
After awhile I heard the door of our flat open. I didn't move or look around through the banister, but I could tell by voices and footsteps that all four of them were leaving.
After all the sound had died away downstairs, I let myself in with my key. I turned on the fire under the kettle again. This time I put coffee in the dripolator and got everything ready, Then I went over to the window and stood looking out across the cement courtyard.
I thought about Pop, and I wished I'd known him better.
Oh, we'd got along all right, we'd got along swell, but it came to me now that it was too late, how little I really knew him.
But it was as though I was standing a long way off looking at him, the little I really knew of him, and it seemed now that I'd been wrong about a lot of things.
His drinking, mostly. I could see now that that didn't matter. I didn't know why he drank, but there must have been a reason. Maybe I was beginning to see the reason, looking out the window there. And he was a quiet drinker and a quiet man. I'd seen him angry only a few times, and every one of those times he'd been sober.
I thought, you sit at a linotype all day and set type for A & P handbills and a magazine on asphalt road surfacing and tabular matter for a church council report on finances, and then you come home to a wife who's a bitch and who's been drinking most of the afternoon and wants to quarrel, and a stepdaughter who's an apprentice bitch.
And a son who thinks he's a little bit better than you are because he's a smart-aleck young punk who got honor grades in school and thinks he knows more than you do, and that he's better.
And you're too decent to walk out on a mess like that, and so what do you do? You go down for a few beers and you don't intend to get drunk, but you do. Or maybe you did intend to, and so what?
I remembered that there was a picture of Pop in their bedroom, and I went in and stood looking at it. It was taken about ten years ago, about the time they were married.
I stood looking at it. I didn't know him. He was a stranger to me. And now he was dead and I'd never really know him at all.
Обсуждение отрывка объявляю открытым. Участником в этот раз не буду, попочиваю на лаврах (а может, посыплю ими супчик  ), но руку держать на пульсе буду всенепременно.
Welcome, my dear friends!
Перевожу иероглифы каприкорнов. Недорого.  
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| Penguin | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 22:35 | Сообщение # 16 |
 Собеседник Века
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| Quote (Silk-Wire) наш герой вряд ли стал бы звать ласковым словом "мама" ненавистную мегеру
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| Silk-Wire | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 22:36 | Сообщение # 17 |
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The Vorpal Blade
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| Как насчет небрежного "Ма" ?  ну и "Па", до кучи...
Перевожу иероглифы каприкорнов. Недорого.
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| alex_7 | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 22:52 | Сообщение # 18 |
 Иногда изрекаю слово
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| Quote (Penguin) Нет, у меня нет сомнений в том, что она мачеха. Но герой ее так не называет.
согласен, не называет.
Но мне кажется, что "мачеха" для русского читателя - это не только "неродная мать", это еще и человек, с которым не самые лучшие отношения. Такую легко можно назвать bitch, как и делает герой.
Я к тому, что вряд ли этот парень стал бы называть мамой чужую женщину, которую не особо-то любит. "Мачеха" куда вероятнее. Но все имхо)Добавлено (27.10.2012, 22:52)
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Quote (Penguin) А вы можете привести пример употребления выражения one on each side применительно к ситуации, подобной той, что описана здесь?
нет, не могу)
но все равно не вижу в этом сакральных смыслов)
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| Penguin | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:03 | Сообщение # 19 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Сакрального ничего нет. Просто парень вспоминает всякие мелкие детали, подробности...
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:21 | Сообщение # 20 |
 Живое Слово
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| Quote (Penguin) парень вспоминает всякие мелкие детали, подробности...
Английский язык склонен к избыточной детализации, её надо убирать. Это не я такая умная - слова учителя.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
Сообщение отредактировал Lizzy - Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:28 |
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| Penguin | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:32 | Сообщение # 21 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Если вдуматься, весь этот рассказ можно пересказать тремя предложениями. Может, не стоит так уж сильно сокращать?..
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:36 | Сообщение # 22 |
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Живое Слово
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| Конечно, сильно не стоит! Золотая середина... 
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
Сообщение отредактировал Lizzy - Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:36 |
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| Penguin | Дата: Суббота, 27.10.2012, 23:50 | Сообщение # 23 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Quote (Silk-Wire) the two men got out, one on each side
Может быть, этой фразой автор подчеркивает одновременность, слаженность действий этих двоих. Иначе, с чего бы парень решил, что они полицейские? Никаких других признаков, вроде, нет...
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 28.10.2012, 00:01 | Сообщение # 24 |
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Живое Слово
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| Quote (Penguin) Никаких других признаков, вроде, нет...
Копов выдают манеры.
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Penguin | Дата: Воскресенье, 28.10.2012, 00:22 | Сообщение # 25 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Уточняю: в тексте других признаков нет.
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| Lizzy | Дата: Воскресенье, 28.10.2012, 14:35 | Сообщение # 26 |
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Живое Слово
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| «it was written all over them, even if they didn't wear uniforms». – эта фраза о многом говорит, мне кажется. Рисует образ...
В порядке бредового мозгового штурма.
«Копы! Слаженность движений выдавала их с головой».
Дурак учится на своих ошибках, умный — на чужих, а мудрый использует опыт и тех, и других себе на пользу.
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| Penguin | Дата: Воскресенье, 28.10.2012, 14:40 | Сообщение # 27 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Думаю, надо просто "нарисовать" картинку, правильно расставив акценты. А уж читатель сам догадается…
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| MsHemulen | Дата: Понедельник, 29.10.2012, 11:48 | Сообщение # 28 |
 Общаюсь, но в меру
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| Quote (Lizzy) Конечно, сильно не стоит! Золотая середина...
А вот интересно, должна ли книга в переводе примерно соответствовать своему объему в оригинале (в смысле, количеству страниц)?Добавлено (29.10.2012, 11:48)
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Как насчет небрежного "Ма" ? ну и "Па", до кучи... (извините, не получается процитировать через кнопку quote)
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А вы это в негативном или позитивном смысле? Я как раз использовала "па", и мне интересно, как это выглядит со стороны.
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| Penguin | Дата: Понедельник, 29.10.2012, 12:02 | Сообщение # 29 |
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Собеседник Века
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| Ма – это гораздо "интимнее", чем просто мама.
Your brain works faster than you think.
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| MsHemulen | Дата: Понедельник, 29.10.2012, 12:23 | Сообщение # 30 |
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Общаюсь, но в меру
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| 2 Penguin
А что значит "интимнее"? То есть допустимо только в диалоге между персонажами, один из которых и есть "ма" ("па"), но не в косвенной речи?
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