just_writing | Translation

Been a while since I posted here. Unpolished, as usual.

Translation

The heat was merciless. I stopped to ineffectually mop sweat from my face with a handkerchief, moving the oven-hot air across my skin with my hat. Dust caught my throat, convulsing it closed, watering my eyes, inspiring a fit of coughing. The insect-buzz of the marketplace tugged at me, almost pulled me back, but I shook free and gathered my bearings. Crossing the courtyard, the tap-tap-tap of my cane accompanying my sandaled feet through the dust, I entered the alley between the wine merchant and the souvenir shop.

It was cool after the street. Shaded. A delicate bejewelled lizard scuttled near my head as I walked down the cobbled street. The walls were high, sheltering me from the unfriendly glare of the sun. There was some moisture here – dew gathered on the leaves of the high window-boxes. Little dark shapes circled impossibly far above me, wheeling across Wedgewood-blue sky. My destination lay at the end of the alley, an unremarkable door in a whitewashed wall.

As I opened the door, the single iron bell clonked forlornly above my head, sounding for the benefit of nobody save myself. I let my eyes adjust to the gloom, for a moment. Every surface crowded with shapes and muted colour. Here and there something would glint or glisten in the light from the soot-darkened windows. The mummified shopkeeper did not look up from his work, removing the stones from dates with brittle fingers. The deft movement of his knife the only motion apart from the swinging strands of beads in the curtain across the far doorway.

The shopkeeper did not pause, did not remark upon my presence. I dropped my hat onto a table near the door, leaning my cane beside it. The table held another hat, in a style no longer fashionable, and a pair of spectacles. Other momentos of past visitors clustered around the room. A fan, a satchel, a cane or two. A rifle. A locket hanging from a hook. I ignored them and crossed the room.

I closed my eyes as I stepped through the bead curtain, letting the wood and glass brush my skin as it chose. To push the threads aside with my hand would have been sacrilege. A sharp pain bit my forehead as a rough piece of glass welcomed me to the inner sanctum. My sweat in the cut made my head spin for a moment.

Three steps down, three paces in, and I dropped to my knees pressing my bloody forehead against the carpets rough mustiness. I held myself prostrate for thirty-three beats, counting silently in my head, controlling my breathing. The soughing of the bead curtain behind me the only sound now.

“Rise now,” said the Master after the thirty-third beat, his voice breathy and delicate like a girls. I could feel his golden eye upon me, and I rose to my knees, my eyes modestly lowered, my hands crossed at my groin. He sat in a wicker chair drowned in cushions, his frame wrapped in black wool, a heavy robe, tiny slippers of blue velvet barely visible beneath his skirts.

I waited patiently until the curtain had fallen silent again. The only movement in the room now was the master’s slow languid gestures as he ferried delicate treats to his mouth with his right hand. That and my breathing.

“Eat,” he said at last. “Drink.”

Without looking I selected something from the platter to my left, squeezing it once between my teeth (it popped, flooding my mouth with salt), swallowing it quickly but quickly enough to prevent me tasting it. Despite my preparations I felt my gorge rise, mastering myself only with difficulty. From the table to my right I scooped a chipped enamel bowl, cupping it in my hand, sipping the vinegar-sour wine. My thirst roared.

“Speak.” He said, right his hand prowling among the delicacies beside him, left hand resting quiescent for the moment in the lap of his dark robes.

My tongue clicked, dry, against the roof of my mouth. I sucked blood sharply from my gums to free my voice.

“I wish to attempt a translation, Master. I wish to copy the Book of Truth.”

His right hand fell still for a moment, stumbling over a mound of salted meats. One finger lifted toward me, twitching, then fell back. My eyes, downcast, burned with salt. I could not breathe, the air trapped in my chest, my hands trembling together before me.

“Into what language?” The master’s voice was light. I felt my heart speed painfully, tasted my own blood as I cleared my throat.

“Into German, my Master. Modern German.” Blood pounded my ears.

“Is German your native tongue?”

“No, my Master, and neither is Arabic. I am an Englishman by birth, with a little Greek and Latin.” This was the moment. It hinged on this. Both my German and my Arabic were adequate to the task, I hoped, but I was by no means truly fluent in either language.

“There is a German translation already, from the eighteenth century. Is there need of another one?” There was amusement in the Master’s voice.

“I think there is, Master. The Gerschaft volume is misleading. The decision to include passages from the Greek translation creates confusion in key areas. The Invocation of the Questing Tongue is seriously flawed, the description of the Voice Of Sand is …. “

The Master gestured once with his left hand and I fell immediately silent.

“You would attempt the translation direct?”

I was prepared for this.

“No, Master. I would restore the third apocrypha, and I feel that the Rites of Circling the Chamber of Ashes should come at the end of the fifth chapter, not part-way through the second as the earlier editions have it. I do not think that the Book of Glass is really relevant today, and would take rather the verses from the Atlantean Scroll in its place. I would include De Marchands notes on the Orchestra of Scarabs, and remove the Sons of the Whirling Gyre as I do not … “

Another gesture.

“You may have one thousand pages. No more, and no less. You may have three years.”

It was more than I had hoped for. I bowed my head lower, my chin against my breast.

“Thank you, Master, thank you, I –“

He stopped me again. Something rustled the coarse wool of his skirts. There was a distinct crunching and a guttural swallowing as he consumed some treasure from the table.

“How will you bind the volume?” The Master asked the question casually, his voice lilted with unconcern.

“In … in the traditional way, Master.” My voice died in my throat. Time slowed to a crawl around me, I could feel the blood in the skin of my face, the tingling in my hands, the crawling of sweat down my back.

”Show me,” The Master said.

I unbuttoned my shirt, which clung to my chest, the cotton sodden and dark. I pulled it from my trousers, held it open, looked up. I gazed on the Master for the moment allowed me. He seemed closer, more immanent, leaning forward, reaching his left hand toward my chest. His cold forefingers traced the lines and curves of the new tattoo over my heart, the new tattoo running down my breastbone, the flesh still hot and tender from the artists couch.

“Stoßstangenbuch des Spaßes.” He read. “You have our blessing. Your name will live forever. Go now.”

Dismissed, I pressed my head against the ground again, held it there, shuffled backwards, stood and did not turn until I had stepped back through the curtain. I did not breathe again until I was on the street, the sun already drying my tears of joy. I hastened back to my hotel to make preparations.