He ran in turn, sheltering himself among the trees and hedges until he was able to distinguish in the mauve-coloured mist of the twilight the tree-lined path that led to the house. From the opposite path, he turned for an instant to see her running with her hair down. She must follow the path that goes to the north. Without looking at each other, they were both attached rigidly to the task that awaits them as they separated from each other at the door of the cabin. The ruthless double-checking was hardly interrupted by a hand caressing a cheek.
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From that hour onwards, every second had its own carefully attributed use. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, risks, possible mistakes. Even the embraces that tangled the body of the lover seemed to draw inexplicably the figure of another it was necessary to destroy. A dialogue ran eagerly through the pages like a stream of serpents, and one felt as if all had been decided from the start. The dagger warmed against his chest and underneath it, liberty lay throbbing. Remarkably, she was able to stop his blood with her kisses, but he rejected her caresses, he had not come to repeat the ceremony of their secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. First, the woman entered, furtively now the lover arrived, his face scratched by the lash of a tree branch. Word by word, he was absorbed into the sordid dilemma of the heroes, letting himself drift towards the images which concerted and acquired colour and movement, he was a witness to their last meeting in the mountain cabin. Beyond the grand windows, the air danced in the evening air under the oaks. He enjoyed the almost perverse pleasure of separating himself line by line from his surroundings, but to feel at the same time his head resting comfortably on the velvet of the high-backed chair, his cigarettes continuing to be within easy reach of his hand. His memory retained without effort the names and images of the protagonists the novelistic illusion won him over right away.
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Comfortably seated in his favourite armchair, his back to the door so as to lessen the irksome possibility of intrusions, he let his left hand caress again and again the green velvet of the chair and began to read the last chapters. That afternoon, after writing a letter to his attorney and discussing with his butler about an issue of sharecropping, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study that overlooks a park of oaks.
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Having abandoned it due to urgent business, he revisited it when he was returning by train to his country house, allowing himself to be slowly absorbed back into the plot through the depiction of the characters. He had begun to read the novel a couple days ago. I love this story which was why I translated it, a much better version than mine can be found here.Ĭontinuity of parks (original in Spanish)
LEER PECADO DE OMISIÓN ANA MARIA MATUTE PROFESSIONAL
It is not a word to word translation, nor am I a professional translator. This story was where the namesake of this blog originated, so I thought it would be nice to share.