mr. vertigo

I was twelve years old the first time I walked on water. The man in the back clothes taught me how to do it, and I’m not going to pretend I learned that trick overnight. Master Yehudi found me when I was nine, an orphan boy begging nickels on the streets of Saint Louis, and he worked with me steadily for three years before he let me show my stuff in public. That was in 1927, the year of Babe Ruth and Charles Lindbergh, the precise year when night began to fall on the world forever. I kept it up until a few days before the October crash, and what I did was greater than anything those two gents could have dreamed of. I did what no American had done before me, what no one has ever done since. 

Master Yehudi chose me because I was the smallest, the dirtiest, the most abject. ¨You’re not better than an animal¨, he said, ¨a piece of human nothingness.¨ That was the first sentence he spoke to me, and even though sixty-eight years have passed since that night, it’s as if I can still hear the words coming from the master’s mouth. ¨You’re no better than an animal, If you stay where you are, you’ll be dead before winter is out. If you come with me, I’ll teach you hiw to fly.¨ 

¨Ain’t nobody can fly, mister¨, I said. ¨That’s that birds do, and I sure as hell ain’t no bird.¨ 

¨You know nothing¨, Master Yehudi said. ¨You know nothing because you are nothing. If I haven’t taught you to fly your thirteenth birthday, you can chop off my head with an axe. I’ll put it in writing if you like. If I fail to deliver on my promise, my fate will be in your hands.¨ 

It was a Saturday night in early November, and we were standing in front of the Paradise Cafe, a slick downtow gin mill with a colored jazz band and cigarette girls in transparent dresses. I used to hang around there on weekends, cadging handouts and running errands and hustling cabs for the swells. At first I thought Master Yehudi was just another drunk, a rich booze hound stumbling through the night in a black tuxedo and a silk top hat. His accent was strange, so I figured him to be from out of town, but that was as far as I took it. Drunks say stupid things, and the business about flying was no stupider than most. 

¨You get too high in the air,¨I said, ¨you could break your neck when you come down´. 

¨We’ll talk about technique later,¨the master said. ¨It’s not an easy skill to learn, but if you listen to me and obey my instructions, we’ll both wind up millionaires.¨ 

¨You’re already a millionaire,¨I said. ¨What do you need me for?¨ 

¨Because, my wretched little thug, I barely have two dimes to rub together. I might look like a robber baron to you, but that’s only because you have sawdust for brains. Listen to me carefully. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, but you only get that chance once. I’m booked on the Blue Bird Specialat six thirty a.m., and if you don’t haul your carcass onto that train, this is the last you’ll ever see of me.¨

Mr. vertigo 

Paul Auster 

publicada orixinalmente por Viking Penguin en Nova York, 1994.

traducida ao galego por Xosé Antón L. Dobao

e publicada como:

Mr. Vertigo

Santiago de Compostela, editorial Sotelo Blanco, 1996.

Tiña doce anos a primeira vez que camiñei sobre da auga. Ensinoume a facelo o home de traxe negro, non vou eu agora pretender que aprendín o truco dun día para o outro.  O mestre Yehudi deu comigo cando eu tiña nove anos; era un orfo que andaba á esmola duns patacos polas rúas de Sant Louis. Traballou comigo arreo tres anos enteiros antes de me deixar representa-lo espectáculo en público. Foi en 1927, o ano de Babe Ruth e Charles Lindbergh, xusto o ano en que a noite empezou a caer sobre o mundo para sempre. Seguino representando ata uns días antes da crise de outubro. O que eu facía era máis grande do que aquelas dúas persoas puideran soñar nunca. Fixen o que ningún ía facer de alí en diante.

O mestre Yehudi elixiume por eu se-lo máis cativo, o máis porco, o máis abxecto.

-Non eres mellor ca un animal –dixo-, un anaco de nada humana.

Foi a primeira frase que me dixo. Malia pasaren xa sesenta e oito anos desde aquela noite, aínda é hoxe o día que podo escoita-las palabras a xurdiren da boca do mestre.

-Non es mellor ca un animal. Se quedas onde estás, morres antes de que chegue o inverno. Se vés canda min, ensínoche a voar.

-Pois é que ninguén pode voar, señor –dixen-. Iso fano os paxaros, e pois é que eu non lle son un paxaro nin nada parecido.

-Non sabes nada –dixo o mestre Yehudi-. Non sabes nada porque non es nada. Se non che dou aprendido a voar para cando fága-los trece anos pódesme arrinca-la cabeza cun machado. Se queres póñocho por escrito. Se non cumpro coa miña palabra, o meu destino  estará nas túas mans.

Foi un sábado pola noite a primeiros de novembro e estabamos diante do Café Paradise, una tasca fina do centro da cidade cunha banda de jazz con músicos negro e vendedoras de tabaco con vestidos  transparentes. Eu tiña o costume de deixarme caer por alí as fins de semana, a ripar esmolas, facer mandados e apañar taxis para a xente fina. Ó primeiro pensei que o mestre Yehudi non era máis ca outro borracho, un cheas rico que andaba ás atoutiñadas pola noite, cun frac negro e una chisteira de seda. Tiña un acento estraño, por iso imaxinei que non era da cidade, pero de aí non daba pasado. Os borrachos di estupideces, e a leria aquela de voar non era máis estúpida cás outras cousas.

-Suba alto de máis –dixen-, verá como rompe o pescozo cando caia.

-Xa falaremos da técnica máis adiante –dixo o mestre-. Non che é una habelencia doada de aprender, pero se me escoitas e obedece-las miñas instrucións hannos voa-los millóns ás mans.

-Vostede xa é un millonario –díxenlle-. ¿Para que me quere a min?

-Pois mira, meu godalliño miserable, non che teño máis ca dúas cadelas no peto. Déboche parecer un magnate atracador, pero iso é só porque tes serraduras no canto de cerebro. Escóitame ben. Estouche ofrecendo a oportunidade da túa vida, pero só a vas ter una vez. Teño una praza no Blue Bird Special para as seis e media da mañá; se non carrexas esa túa casca para o tren, esta é a derradeira vez que me ves.

a revolta dos animais

Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.

As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a uttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say.

At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was already ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was still a majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the other animals began to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their different fashions. First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher, and then the pigs, who settled down in the straw immediately in front of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills, the pigeons uttered up to the rafters, the sheep and cows lay down behind the pigs and began to chew the cud. The two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover, came in together, walking very slowly and setting down their vast hairy hoofs with great care lest there should be some small animal concealed in the straw. Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. Boxer was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as any two ordinary horses put together. A white stripe down his nose gave him a somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate intelligence, but he was universally respected for his steadiness of character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel, the white goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest animal on the farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he did, it was usually to make some cynical remark for instance, he would say that God had given him a tail to keep the flies of, but that he would sooner have had no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he never laughed. If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Boxer; the two of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking.

Animal Farm

George Orwell

 Publicada o 17 de agosto de 1945 por Secker and Warburg (Londres).

Traducida ao galego por Xose Antón López Dobao e publicada como

A revolta dos animais

Santiago de Compostela, edicións Positivas, 1992.

 

O señor Jones, o dono da Granxa Manor, pechara os galiñeiros pola noite, pero estaba bébedo de máis para lembrarse de pecha-las ventás. Co anel  de luz do foco a bailar dun lado para outro, cruzou o curral randeando, tirou as botas diante da porta de atrás, bebeu unha última xerra de cervexa de barril que tiña na cociña e marchou para a cama, onde xa a señora Jones roncaba.

En apagándose a luz do cuarto, un barullo percorreu os pavillóns do casal. Andara todo o día a voz de que o vello Maior, o esbrancuxado porco premiado, tivera un soño estraño a noite anterior e desexaba comunicárllelo aos animais. Acordaran xuntarse todos na corte en canto o señor Jones desaparecese de diante deles. O vello Maior –así lle chamaban sempre, aínda que era Willingdon Beauty o nome co que o presentaran á exposición- era tan respectado que a ninguén lle importaba perder unha hora de sono por escoitar canto el tivese que dicir.

Contra a parte posterior da corte, encol dunha especie de estrado, estaba xa o Maior acomodado no seu leito de palla, baixo unha lámpada pendurada da trabe. Tiña doce anos e puxérase ultimamente bastante grollo, pero conservaba aínda un aspecto maxestuoso, de porco sabio e nobrote, a pesar que endexamais lle cortaran os cabeiros. Moito antes empezaran a chegar os outros animais que se colocando en diferentes posturas. Apareceron primeiro os tres cans, Bluebell, Jessie e Pincher, e despois os porcos, que se estarricaron na palla xusto diante do estrado. As galiñas pousaron nos peitorís, voaron as pombas ata as vigas, as ovellas e mailas vacas deitáronse detrás dos porcos e comezaron a remoer. Boxer e Clover, as dúas bestas de tiro, chegaron camiñando de vagar e pousaron moi a modo os seus enormes cascos peludos por medo a que puidese haber algún animaliño agochado na palla. Clover era unha egua rexa de aspecto maternal e idade madura que nunca dera recuperado a súa figura despois de pari-lo cuarto potro. Boxer era un cabalo enorme, de case dezaoito palmos de altura, que posuía a forza de dúas bestas xuntas. Unha liña branca baixo os fociños dáballe certa apariencia estúpida; e de veras non posuía unha intelixencia superior, pero todos o respectaban pola súa rectitude de carácter e pola súa gran capacidade de traballo. Tralos cabalos chegaron Muriel, a cabra branca, e Benxamín, o burro. Benxamín era o animal máis vello da granxa e o que peor xenio tiña. Poucas veces falaba, e normalmente só o facía para botar algún comentario cínico. Por exemplo, adoitaba dicir que Deus lle dera un rabo para axota-las moscas pero que prefería non ter moscas nin rabo. Era o único animal da granxa que nunca ría. Se lle preguntaban por que, contestaba que non vía razóns para facelo. Con todo, aínda que non o admitía abertamente, apreciaba a Boxer; ámbolos dous pasaban os domingos no agro de detrás do pomar, pacendo xuntos, sen falaren para nada.